World Enough and Time
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. Starting with a letter found in his bedside table when he assumes the role of Headmaster in 1997, Severus Snape and Hermione Granger begin a strange correspondence. The new Headmaster is glad for the comfort of a confidant, but Hermione has just one problem: it's the end of 1998, and Professor Severus Snape has been dead for months. A story of time and second chances.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own these two fantastic characters, and I am more than happy that I don't so I can play to my heart's content. The title is from the well known poem 'To His Coy Mistress' – Andrew Marvell. _Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime / We would sit down and think which way / To walk and pass our long love's day._

 **A/N:** Here we are. I caved. Below is my nod to the obligatory story about the conundrum that is time. Thank you to Lystan, the Thorin to my Snape ;-)

Do you trust me, dear reader? Trust that I will give you a HEA for our favourite pairing, but also trust that, just for the reading of this story, you can let go of everything that is correct about time. In our little AU universe, it's all flipped on its head. This is inspired heavily by the S. Korean film 'Il Mare', which you might recognise was also made into a Western film named 'The Lake House'. I'd love to hear your theories and thoughts, so be sure to let me know what you think. More on the time difference will become clear in the coming chapters and I promise to give you an explanation that is as plausible as I can get it ;-) Let's begin!

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Time is nothing.

 _Audrey Niffenegger_

 **1997**

The Headmaster's office was exactly the same. Nothing had changed – had he really expected that it would have? Strange little instruments still whirled and twirled in towering bookshelves, and there was even a quill resting against an inkpot on the desk, as if the last inhabitant had simply left for a sojourn to the staff room, rather than falling to his death from the Astronomy Tower.

Severus stared at the desk and wiped a clammy, shaking hand over his face. When his eyes opened, the scene was unchanged; he was still standing in front of Albus' desk, and he was still about to walk around it and assume the position of the man he had murdered. _Killed,_ he reminded himself. Yes, Albus had been very persuasive that his task was to _kill_ him, not to _murder._ To grant a dying man one last act of mercy, at said dying man's own request.

Severus was more inclined to believe that it was a cop out. Who was Albus fucking Dumbledore to say that Severus' soul could withstand pointing a wand at someone and _murdering_ them? He hadn't ever killed before – not like that night, at point blank and staring into his victim's eyes. Severus had knowingly killed, yes, but as a truly merciful act: for a mother so she would not watch her tiny little child writhing under the insane Bellatrix's wand before having to submit to Greyback's never ending thirst for unwilling flesh. The green light bursting from his wand had been easy to conjure, then. There were other instances, other times when he had done similar things; all were infinitely more worthy of his self-hatred than the wizard who once sat in the chair that he was walking towards now.

He sank down into it with a sigh. Albus had tied up all of Severus' guilty thoughts and self-deprecation, and presented it back with an unbending order. And then, as if Severus had ever had a choice about it, the old goat had framed it as a question – like there was a chance that he could decline!

Severus slammed his hands onto the desk. Would it never end? Perhaps the better question was: would it ever end for _him_?

He was tired. Oh, was he tired. He let his head fall into his hands and closed his eyes again, breathing in slowly as he tried to fight a wave of exhaustion. There was simply no _time_ to be tired – the Carrows would be arriving tomorrow morning, though the obscenely disgusting pair would more than likely show their faces in the afternoon from sleeping off whatever revolting acts they committed tonight.

His own task for tonight was not conducive to a good night's rest. Severus had to become acquainted with his new office, search out all the little nooks and crannies that Albus had used before. No information could get into enemy hands and the old man had become so nervous and jittery by the end, thanks to his own stupidity of course, that only Merlin knew whether he'd thought it might be fit to stash _things_ in here.

Severus wasn't exactly sure what he might find – Order secrets had already been passed to Minerva and Kingsley, some even to himself, but Albus had not been in his right mind. It was possible that he may have left hints somewhere for Potter. _Granger,_ Severus corrected with a roll of his eyes. At some point, if he survived (which he would not), he should find a way to thank the girl. He had slept easier once he'd found out that Potter had taken her with him – sod the Weasley grunt, it was Granger that would be able to make sure they had the best chance at succeeding.

Severus began the search, deciding to start with the desk. He opened each drawer furiously, shoving his hands to the very backs and then repeating the gesture with his wand, seeking for clues. There was no end to the secret compartments – he found some while crouched under the desk, then while lying under it like a Muggle mechanic. There were more hidden in the drawers, and the entire top of the desk could be pushed up to show another layer of storage.

There was parchment everywhere. Normally a tidy man, Severus grumbled as he rifled through sheet after sheet, tossing almost everything into the fire. Nothing. But there had to be something here, surely. Albus barely left his desk – if Severus was going to find anything, he'd find it here, wouldn't he?

Ultimately, he had hoped that Albus' memories would be stored here. It was a fool's hope, but he couldn't stop wishing that the old man might have made some sort of _plan_ that didn't involve sending Severus to the wolves. For that was where he would go on the odd chance that the Dark Lord didn't kill him first. If they _did_ manage to win the war, then he would still be the man that killed the leader of the Light. Never mind that he was given no choice – never mind that Albus was almost dead anyway. Never mind the fact that it _destroyed_ him to know what he had done.

But he found nothing. In a fit of rage, Severus upended the desk and watched its contents tumble to the floor, some breaking and sending shards of glass scattering over the marble tiles and crimson rug. It was almost beautiful, the chaos of it all. It made sense, which made him think that perhaps he'd drunk enough whiskey for the night.

He shrugged out of his robes and left them hanging over the back of the chair. In another life, if this truly was his rightful office, he would've sent the robes for cleaning and worn them with pride. Now, they stank of alcohol and cigarettes and he didn't care one fucking bit.

Sod appearances. He was playing his part, after all; the greasy dungeon bat, the hook nosed git. The traitor.

He strode to the stairs that led to the Headmaster's private quarters and ascended them two at a time. At the top, he turned to face all of the portraits. All eyes were trained on him, most with revulsion but some with understanding, and an emotion that he suspected was pity. He _hated_ pity.

One look at Dumbledore sent him growling with anger. The goat was asleep, looking as peaceful as the geriatric sod that he'd become in the end.

"Well," said Severus grandly, "good night, you lot of fucking halfwits."

 _That ought to do it._ As if on cue, the portraits gasped and huffed, and most disappeared to annoy different places in the castle. Job done, he turned on his heel and stalked into the sitting room that any other man would have been glad to have. For Severus, the opulence and soft, comfortable couches in front of the fire merely served to remind him of what he'd had to do to get here. That was enough to put him off the whole thing. He left the room quickly, walking through it to reach the bedchamber. Ignoring the huge bed, he pulled off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the shower, taking one small indulgence of standing under the searing hot spray for as long as his skin could handle it.

A tumbler of port awaited him; "Headmaster's finest!" a bubbling house-elf assured him.

Severus stopped counting after the eighth drink. There was nothing that he wanted to remember – only the reminder of the Carrows arrival had him passing on another glass. He let himself fall back onto the bed naked, glad for the fire in the corner of the room that made the room warm and comfortable; as comfortable as a monster was likely to get, anyhow.

He tossed and turned, looking above him at the canopy of the bed, charmed long ago to mimic the roof of the Great Hall with its stars and planets. There was something, some little niggling _thing_ in his mind that refused to let him sleep. He sat up and looked about him – he hadn't even started looking through the sitting room yet, the bedroom would be left for another day entirely.

Yet instinct, if he could call it that, led him to the bedside table. An obvious hiding place, he thought, and would have dismissed it entirely if it wasn't for the plain folded over sheet of parchment sitting in plain view inside the top drawer. Frowning, Severus poked his wand at the parchment – he couldn't discern any curses, nor any other residual magic, though that did not mean that it was harmless. It could be innocent though, he mused… left in plain sight… an obvious hiding place for someone who left everything else in fake portraits and hidden compartments.

He muttered a spell and watched as the paper floated over onto the golden comforter then settled down onto it. It looked fresh, as if it had just been folded yesterday, but Severus was sure that no one had stepped into the office since he'd rid it of its master. He waved his wand around the room; sure enough, there were only faint traces of magical scents and all of those came from the old Headmaster himself.

 _Could it be?_ His heart sped up at the idea that Albus may have cared enough to leave him proper instructions after all. Very carefully, he nudged the paper wide open with his wand, eyes running over the neat writing that seemed strangely familiar, though it did not resemble the author that he had been hoping for.

 _What on earth is this?_ Severus reached for his thin glasses on the other table, shoved them unceremoniously onto the end of his nose and leant forward again to re-examine the letter until he fell back onto the pillows with a mouth that gaped open wider at each second.

' _Dear Sir or Madam,'_ the letter began, causing him to scoff immediately. The old fool wasn't _that_ senile and everyone knew who was going to be assuming his office after him. What the hell was this writer playing at?

' _I am writing with a matter that may not seem to carry much importance to you, but I hope that you will take the time to read it and give appropriate attention to its contents.'_

"Either you have a death wish, or you're a Gryffindor," he mumbled under his breath, sure that the students had somehow managed to penetrate the wards and place it there. Would they ever learn? Of course, he didn't _want_ them to – it was part of the 'Master Plan' after all. Yet the brats never opened their eyes, never bothered to look beyond the surface. Here, it seemed, was just another lot of supporting evidence for his completely correct hypothesis. He read on.

' _The role you have accepted is a vital one. You, Headmaster (though I confess to wishing that I am addressing this to a Headmistress) will lead your students out of the darkness and into the Light. You will make the school a symbol of hope for us, those that will return to you. Do not take such a mission lightly.'_

Severus swallowed heavily as he read the remaining sentences. The person surely had a few screws loose… even more likely was that it was a trap. His heart sank; it would have been comforting to know that _someone_ had cared enough to contact him. He made a mental note to again investigate the magical traces in the quarters when he woke, though he had no idea how one of the Dark Lord's lackeys had managed to get in here to place it.

' _It is not my intention to be rude, Headmaster/Headmistress. But let me be clear: the man that you are replacing cannot be done so easily. He protected the students to his last breath, and you will be hard pressed to dedicate yourself with the same loyalty that he gave us. Try. That is all we ask of you._

 _We are counting on you; if you have any doubts, you will, of course, have seen all of the latest news about your predecessor. Read it. Understand the man whose quarters you now reside in, and know that he was the bravest man this school has ever had the honour of having lead it._

 _We are placing our hope in you, Headmaster/Headmistress._

 _Please – do not let us down._

 _H._

 _P.S I have tidied the office to ready it for you, and the personal effects of the Headmaster have been retained so as to be kept private. If you require anything, please contact Professor Minerva McGonagall. Unless you are Minerva – in that case, I knew it!'_

"Definitely a trap," he said softly, scouring the letter. 'H'? Could they have been more obvious? Potter was far from Hogwarts at this point – how could any Death Eater even entertained the idea that he would fall for such a ruse? And mentioning Minerva? She'd gladly take his bollocks on a platter at this point, what a farce.

Severus read it for a fourth time and snorted, glad that at least the writer had probably gagged after writing so much about Albus. That was almost revenge enough.

He summoned a bottle of red ink from the desk and grabbed a quill, delighting in his self-appointed task. With a flourish, he drew a solid line over the entire letter then chuckled to himself as he penned a little reply that would show them who they were dealing with. Finally he charmed the handwriting to hide his own spidery script, replacing it with dull block letters.

/

' _You are a fool. And if it is you that is responsible for the mayhem in the office, then your understanding of 'tidy' is damnably incorrect.'_

/

He would address it further in the morning. Perhaps he could get Pettigrew punished once or twice – Merlin knew the rat deserved it a thousand times over. Shrugging, Severus shoved it back into the drawer, set his glasses on the other table then slid under the blankets.

The wind outside was blowing gently, and the roaring fires soothed him more than he would care to admit. Yet still he could not sleep; thoughts swum through his mind until he sat up again with a groan and measured out a dose of Dreamless Sleep, notching a stroke on the small pad of Muggle paper that he kept with it to monitor his usage. Again he stretched out for the bedside table, intending to place the remainder of the potion and paper in the drawer with the strange letter.

If he hadn't extinguished the lights and taken half a teaspoon into his mouth already, Severus would have seen the chilling lack of anything inside the drawer at all. He fell asleep quickly, his face slack and calm, completely unaware that the letter and his response had vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _A reminder that this is an AU, and my bleeding heart has kept some characters alive. We'll be moving a bit faster in the next chapter, but for now I'm keeping the chapters short so I can update sooner. Thank you to everyone who has shown interest in the story so far – the reviews and followers thus far are a personal record for me, for a first chapter! Hooray. This would have been up earlier, but the site didn't seem to want to let me publish anything. I was going to end this with a cliffhanger, but instead let's just start off the next chapter with a bang, eh?_

 _Sit tight. Explanations will be forthcoming; we know our beloved characters are bookworms, after all._

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 **1998**

Hermione squeaked with surprise and stuffed her hand into the back pocket of her jeans. Her fingers searched past key sets, coins and to-do lists folded up into tiny squares before coming to rest on the stiff parchment that had appeared in her pocket with a jab to her backside. The letter! Should she see Minerva? Surely the announcement had been made, then, if someone had found the note she'd left inside the bedside table?

She decided instead to request a cup of tea and sandwiches to appease her complaining stomach; it was late in the evening, but she had only just finished helping to clear out some of the water in the dungeons. The task was as gruelling as it was gruesome – an assortment of Professor Snape's old ingredients had somehow found their way out into the flooded corridors. Many bottles had ended up smashed and so Hermione, Remus and Neville waded not only through knee deep murky water but also had to fish out slimy tentacles, strange circular things that resembled eyeballs and probably were, and other things that had Neville gagging for the entire afternoon. Never had she wished more for magic; the three of them had agreed, though, that the ingredients could have been volatile – no one wished for any ingredients to suddenly double their size and act as if they were alive. A real possibility, if Snape had charmed his storeroom against any hands that weren't his own.

Body begging for a shower, she set the sheet of parchment down on the bed and opted first to attend to ensuring that she didn't smell like a distant cousin of the Giant Squid. After paying particular attention to her hair that had fallen victim to the damp, squalid conditions below the castle, she emerged with clean, warm pyjamas and hair piled up on her head.

Having Minerva on her side was a benefit Hermione hadn't expected; apparently the teachers had decided that those returning to take their final year, having missed out due to the war, would be given private rooms and adjoining bathrooms. The idea was well received by those that had already come to help restore the castle in time for the returning students, though she was inclined to think that it was more out of sympathy than anything else. Not that Hermione would reverse the situation – it already felt strange with Ginny being in the same year as her now, and another younger girl being named Head Girl when she had wished for the position for years. She was already naturally separated from the rest of new year group, and if being on her own meant that there was no one else to hear when she forgot her silencing charms and jerked awake with a gasp from nightmares, then that was a very welcome boon.

As usual, when she pondered the strangeness of returning to school after such a horrid year, she began to think on those that wouldn't be returning with her. More than a few students had been pulled out to be educated at home, or transferred onto other schools in neighbouring countries. If Hermione's own parents were not still living obliviously in Australia, she had no doubt that she, too, would have been asked to study somewhere else. Not that she would have accepted such a demand.

The haunting part of it all was that there were students who had had their choice taken away – not by parents, or well-meaning guardians, but by death. Youthful bodies had lined the Great Hall, covered in white sheets alongside teachers and other Order members. There were too many to name, and though Hermione knew that some other students who would form the newly created eighth year group recited the litany before falling asleep, she often only found herself thinking of one victim. One man.

Professor Snape was the worst loss. That itself seemed selfish to say, considering the others that had fallen; others that were warmer, friendlier, closer.

But the Professor… that he had been dealt the hand that was his life and then died in the way that he had… it was terribly sad. Even sad wasn't the right word for it, but she had spent so many hours speaking with survivors that she felt that 'sad' conveyed it all, really.

Secretly, Hermione thought that she, along with everyone else, had it all wrong. They pitied the man when he would have despised it. They deplored his life of serving others, though by the same deduction, that implied that he had no choice in many of his actions. She had chosen to believe that the idea of him as a helpless hero was codswallop. Or bullshit. Yes, she thought with a grin - bullshit was certainly a more suitable term. If anything, Snape had been the one to tirelessly put himself in the face of harm because he had the pure, unadulterated guts to be able to do so. Dumbledore had a lot to answer for, yet Hermione wasn't ready to dismiss the idea that Snape had no choice in the matter. Surely that dumbed the man down? Surely that ignored his risk to defect to the Light, to do such a thing of his own accord?

But if it made it easier for everyone else when she nodded and sighed and patted their hands when commiserating about the 'poor sod', then who was she to argue about that? For now, anyway. She certainly didn't pity him; no, Hermione _admired_ the man. Almost a little too much, if she was completely honest.

That was the reason for her little act of private defiance – writing an anonymous (well, not exactly) letter to be seen by the next Headmaster or Headmistress of the school. She hoped that it would be Minerva, in which case the two would hopefully share a laugh over it soon, but on the off chance it was another… it would not be a lie to say that she wouldn't be overwhelmingly pleased if the new leader of the school had a bout of performance anxiety and buggered off to leave the job to Minerva anyway. A reminder that they would be attempting to walk in Severus Snape's rather large shoes could do that to a person, after all.

After a few mouthfuls of her pitiful excuse for dinner, she summoned the letter from the nightstand and sank down into her pillows. Unfolding it, she tensed at the sight of bright red letters and then exhaled in a rush of breath.

"Good lord!" she exclaimed, then lost control of her generally rather 'proper' vocabulary. "What an arse! 'Tidy' indeed! Pompous goat, who does he think he is…"

She went on and on, incensed at the rude tone of the 'letter'.

/

' _You are a fool. And if it is you that is responsible for the mayhem in the office, then your understanding of 'tidy' is damnably incorrect.'_

/

If she didn't know any better, she would've thought that it was Professor Snape himself, returned from the dead just to torment her about her attempt to be respectful to his belongings and clear his old office so no one else would have access to his last private sanctuary. Harry had shown her the memories, and she had gone straight to Minerva when the dust had settled and demanded that Snape's last residence be shown the respect that _he_ should have been given. Not that she was expecting that the job be given to _herself_ – but she wasn't about to say 'no'.

Staring at the letter, she grumbled and produced a blue biro and tore off the last half of parchment that contained one of the to-do lists. Head bent over her makeshift desk of a thick tome balanced on her lap, she began to write.

/

' _Dear Sir or Madam,_

 _I shall address the most concerning point of your letter first._

 _My understanding of 'tidy' is, without a doubt, faultless. Your new office is_ _orderly._ _It is_ _neat._ _It is_ _uncluttered._ _It is_ _organised._ _Shall I continue? Perhaps it is you that has misunderstood the term._

 _Might I suggest consulting the dictionary in the sitting room? Middle bookcase, third shelf from the bottom.'_

 _/_

Hermione paused and cackled into the air then rubbed her hands together then returned to the page.

/

' _As for your second point, there is no mayhem in the office. Please refer to the first paragraph of this letter. I have swept, dusted, wiped, scrubbed and sorted (plus a myriad of other verbs), and it is spotless._

 _And the third… well. I fail to see how that is an appropriate word to use to address a student. I am no fool, sir, and I do not appreciate being referred to as one._

 _Are you attempting to take a leaf out of your predecessor's book? You are doing a remarkably poor job._

 _Regards,_

 _H.'_

 _/_

At some point, 'sir' had snuck its way in. Quite unavoidable, really; she wasn't sexist, but it was more than tempting to reply as if it was the Potions Master himself, and so 'sir' the writer of the reply would remain until proven otherwise.

She folded up the parchment carefully and placed it in the drawer of her desk in the corner of the room, in front of the lone window. It was the only drawback – she'd managed to charm it so that any reply, no matter the length, made it onto her person. As evidenced by the arrival of this one, it seemed that her location had no effect – it would come to her regardless. Unfortunately, Hermione hadn't quite managed to make it work in reverse. All of the books pointed towards Darker options, but she'd shied away from that; the general idea was that interfering with how a person received the message was taking away their choice to have it in the first place.

She was overanalysing it, of course she was, but she couldn't help but think that after all that had happened, she needed a clean slate. A light one, pardon the pun. And so, her own replies would be sent to where she'd placed the very first one: the bedside table of the new Headmaster or Headmistress. The only problem was that there was no simple way to charm the letter to actually go there. The wards on the office were strong on their own, but those in the private quarters were almost impenetrable. Fair enough, she supposed.

It was a good thing that she had access to the rooms, for while the office and bedroom had been painstakingly cleaned, the sitting room and library had yet to be tackled. The students were to return in a fortnight, and as long as the new Headmaster stayed away (a viable assumption, given no word had been spread about him yet – maybe he had simply checked the quarters and left via the Floo – snob!) she would be able to enter the quarters until term began.

Glad that she had Harry's invisibility cloak, Hermione fell asleep with plans filling her head, and all of them were to do with creeping into the quarters and making sure her very strongly worded reply was received.

And if she also fell asleep with the deep, red velvet voice of her Professor in her ear, reciting ingredients and methods of brewing while telling her just how to slide her fingers down past her knickers to touch and stroke the sensitive skin below, then that was her own damn business, wasn't it?

..

The next morning, she ate with the staff, students and various Order members that had stayed over to assist with the reconstruction. Casting a furtive eye over each witch and wizard, it was immediately obvious that there was literally _no one_ in the Hall that hadn't been there since either the last Battle itself, or the weeks afterwards.

Tapping her fork on the table, Hermione pursed her lips as she tried her best to appear nonchalant while she listened in on the conversations around her. Honestly, she was a ridiculous spy; either that or she had chosen the wrong people to listen to. Professor Snape would be rolling over in his grave.

"I mean, really," Lavender said tartly, "what has she _done_ to her _hair_? Like, _really_?"

Hermione risked a look over at Trelawney and had to agree. A bird's nest was a bird's nest, and did not belong on top of one's head, surely. And if Lavender was commenting, then that was especially amusing.

On her other side, Neville and Ron were having what seemed to be a very titillating conversation; Hermione almost gagged once she paid attention to it.

"No, mate," Ron said between mouthfuls (a vast improvement on _during_ mouthfuls), "look at her. She wants you. I can see the heat in her eyes."

Neville turned to Luna across the table who was staring at Draco on the other side of the room. Her expression was not unusually vacant, but there was a small smile playing on her pretty mouth.

"I dunno, Ron." Neville shrugged. "How am I s'posed to know? Aren't there _signals_?"

"Mate – she's projecting like a Veela. She wants you."

"She's not even looking at me! Are you sure you know what you're going on about?"

Unable to stifle a snort, Hermione locked eyes with a red cheeked Neville. "He doesn't!" she mouthed at the tall and gangly boy, grinning when he spluttered into his pumpkin juice.

Abandoning her attempt at subterfuge, she threw back the last of her Darjeeling black and hurried out of the Hall behind the woman she hoped would take over the helm.

"Minerva!" she called, smiling when the Transfiguration Professor slowed her steps. Being on a first name basis with the majority of the Professors was a right given to the eighth years; it was a real shame that Snape wasn't around, as Hermione would have particularly enjoyed his reaction if she'd swept into his classroom and addressed him with a 'Morning, Severus!' – she'd be hexed on sight, probably.

"Hermione! Good morning. Though I don't know what's good about it – did you know that the media is coming today? Christ, I might as well head over to Divination now and get Sybill to head the conference. That'll provide some amusement, at least. My 'Plan B' is a good old escape."

"What's your excuse?"

"Family Business," she said with a smirk. "Or menopause. Don't look at me like that, girl; you know powerful witches live longer than Muggles. I'm not past my prime yet."

"Oh, no. Of course not." Hermione blinked. "Well – I've got a question for you."

They began to climb the stairs to McGonagall's classroom. The older woman eyed her thoughtfully and nodded slowly. "Word it well enough to get me out of this conference and I'm all yours."

"I can't promise that it will be interesting enough; it's all quite dull, really. But I must insist on secrecy."

Minerva arched an eyebrow and held open the classroom door, ushering her inside. She made a show of casting a silencing charm on the room and sat down, peering at Hermione from over her glasses.

"Speak."

Hermione sat primly in front of the desk. She had initially decided to show Minerva the letter, but something made her hand pause while it rifled through her bag. She placed her hands in her lap instead. "Is there a new Headmaster? Or Headmistress?"

Linking her fingers, Minerva shook her head and said, "No, Hermione. The Board hasn't made any official decisions yet. Why, pray tell, are you asking? Are the students talking?"

Sighing with relief, Hermione smiled. "No, no. I wanted to know if they have finally given you the position – the younger years were so scarred from Umbridge's time, that's all, so I was hoping to have some good news to give them in the common room."

"Hm." Minerva gave a small shrug, which was no indication whether or not she believed the slight lie. Everything was true, but Umbridge had long ceased to be of interest to the younger years. Most were talking about Snape, Harry or… that was it, really. "Still going to the common room, are you?"

Coughing, she nodded. "Sometimes."

"But not all of the time?"

"Not all of the time."

Minerva smiled gently. "Well, find the time to do so. Isolating yourself won't do any good. Now what is this _really_ about?" Taking one look at Hermione's stricken expression, the Deputy Headmistress curled her lip. "Hermione, you wear your emotions as blatantly as I do tartan. Both are far from being faults, but I'm interested to know what has you here first after breakfast and swearing me to secrecy. I won't press any further than simply asking to be told, you can keep your secrets if you must, considering we've won the war and all that, but tell me what you wanted to tell me."

"It was just another question," Hermione said carefully. Minerva waved a hand to bid her to continue, and she winced. "It sounds ridiculous, now that I think about it. But – does anyone else have access to the Headmaster's office? Other than me?"

"I do. And the elves, of course. Although I think the elves are still wary of it, given how much the Headmaster valued his… privacy."

"Dumbledore, you mean?"

"No. Professor Snape."

"Oh." Hermione frowned. "I've never heard you refer to him in that way." That was certainly true – McGonagall was still very much testy about the whole Snape affair; it stung that no one had told her, leaving her to staunchly oppose him for the last year of his life. Hermione personally thought that Minerva used his former title rather than Headmaster because it was easier to brush things under the carpet. To be fair, Hermione often found that she herself was doing exactly the same thing.

"Well," Minerva said slowly, "that's what he is."

"Not was?"

"Professor Snape is the Headmaster until a new one is elected. Though dead, he still, _technically,_ is the Head of the school."

Something felt important there, but Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on it. "Right… all right, then. That's rather curious…"

"What is, girl?" Minerva held her hands out impatiently but Hermione was already halfway out of the room. "Where on earth are you going?" she called as her student reached the door.

"Oh, sorry!" Hermione threw a grimace over her shoulder. "The library!"

Minerva harrumphed. "Of _course_ you are."

Hermione didn't hear her Professor; instead she was hurrying through the corridors until she came to the gargoyle standing guard at the Headmaster's office. It was not an outright lie – there was a library in the sitting room, though a few bookcases would be a more suitable description.

"Whiz-bang!" she whispered and tipped her head to acknowledge the statue when it moved aside. Severus Snape's password had amused her to no end, and she'd spent not a small amount of time picturing the man in the hallways when Fred and George had unleashed Umbridge's personal hell onto the school; Hermione had a strong suspicion that Snape would have been spelling each thing to multiply. Personally, she reckoned that he would have even been enjoying himself.

Like she suspected, there was no sign that anyone had been in the office at all since she'd finished cleaning it a few days ago. There were no traces of magical signatures bar her own and Minerva's, plus Snape's although that was so faint that it caused a faint ache in her chest.

Striding determinedly past the office, Hermione bounded up the stairs, ignoring the wave of mutters and whispers from the portraits. Dumbledore was sleeping, as usual.

Upon entering the sitting room, she cast the spell again; and, like she'd thought, no one had been in here except for herself, Minerva a few weeks ago and Snape months before that.

The bedroom was next. The huge, four poster bed dominated the room on a raised platform; it was as ancient as the school itself, a work of art in its own right. It was untouched. The linens and golden coverlet were clean and crisp, ready for the new resident.

 _Very curious indeed…_

Hermione inched forward and slid her reply from the pocket of her khaki shorts. Reading it over again, she bit her lip and opened the drawer, placed the letter inside and then shoved it closed. Nothing happened. No sparks, no 'whooshing' sounds, no clicks, whirls or snaps.

Tilting her head to the side, she hummed to herself, mulling over the possibilities. She'd charmed the letter, charmed it to go to the Headmaster, to be read only by the person who formally held the role.

That person, according to Minerva, was still currently Severus Snape.

"Impossible," she breathed and shook her head. "Truly impossible. And yet…"

She made for the table again and opened the drawer, then leapt back with a shriek of fear.

The letter was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**_ _It is so, so wonderful to read your theories and guesses! I am having a ball writing this. Welcome to all of the new followers. A reminder that this is an AU story; it deviates from canon in many more ways than keeping our favourite Potions Master alive._

 _ **So far:**_ _Hermione has charmed a letter to be seen by the Headmaster. She places it in the bedside table, thinking it would no doubt reach the next Head. There has been no formally recognised replacement for Snape, hence the castle still recognises him as Headmaster – the letter then comes to him. She has managed to charm any reply from him to come to her person, but anything she wishes to send him must go through the drawer. Why/how? Answers will be forthcoming. Remember that there is a year between them, and that sometimes they might be in the same place (office) at the same time of day, and thus able to communicate quickly._

 _And did anyone else play 'Where in the world is Carmen Sandiago?' Hahah. I can imagine Hermione just lapping that up._

 _We're going to be a bit jerky, a bit rushed, a bit breathless, with this chapter. Important discoveries will do that. I'll keep the years at the top of each POV; is everyone good and ready to leave them off for the next chapters? If it makes it clearer and easier to see them, let me know and I can keep them._

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 **1997**

He was shaving when it happened. It was a long perfected ritual of comfort that he used to ready his mind for a day of near constant Occluding that induced headaches not unlike the feel of Thorin sodding Oakenshield's hammer striking his skull. Cream smoothed on with a brushthat cost more than his undershirt; smooth, even strokes with the razor; his own hand towel to pat his bare cheeks dry.

It wasn't much. Truthfully, it was the only thing he still bothered to do with any measure of precision. His hair was no longer washed as well as he used to – fuck what anyone else said, it _was_ clean, despite its lank appearance that couldn't be helped – and his fingertips were beginning to smell like nicotine. It was such a small thing to notice, in the overall grand scheme of things; standing in front of the mirror in only the thin white cotton t-shirt, Severus watched his reflection as he lifted his hand to his nose and took a deep breath in. He winced at the harsh scent and the slight yellowing of the small, lined pads of skin above his neatly filed nails. Years ago, he would've washed his hands twenty times until there were no traces of the Muggle cigarettes. For now, though, he simply shrugged and returned to inspecting his clean, hairless cheeks, chin and neck.

When Severus was a teenager, he once grew a beard for a week. It was the week after his father had died, unmourned by him, and a year after his mother had passed. The beard was unintentional and quite hideous – somehow, somewhere along the line, Snape men had developed a knack of growing hair as quickly as they could remove it. Severus had begun to shave everyday not long after his voice broke at thirteen; the only exception his genes gave him was that the hair around his eager, seventeen year old (at the time) penis was thin and fine, thankfully never growing with a vengeance the way the hair on his head or face did. His chest and arms were somewhere in between; smattered with black, though not as much as on his legs, and, let all the Gods be praised, at least his back and arse were bare.

The week of The Beard (capitalised, given its horrendous nature) was largely unforgettable. He'd drunk himself almost to death in the sitting room of Spinner's End, then splinched himself while attempting to Apparate to buy books in Diagon Alley. Because apparently, when Severus Snape was filled to the brim with whiskey and port and loaded with coins from his Da's gambling debts (owed by _others_ – who'd have thought?) recently paid to his cupped hands at the funeral, he went to buy books.

He'd arrived at the alley with a part of his shoulder missing; a week of a beard turned into a total of three after he'd regrown the skin at St. Mungo's. By the time he returned to Spinner's End, full of a dangerous mix of shame (out of all the wizards in Britain, Remus sodding Lupin had been the one to see him and drag him into hospital) and anger, the beard was level with the middle of his neck. Severus had a very long neck.

Thus began a lifetime of meticulously caring for his facial hair, lest he find himself in St. Mungo's again, probably with his cock splinched off, knowing his luck.

He moved his head from side to side, examining and then approving of the job. Not that it improved his appearance – a bit of beard would probably do him some good, hiding the way his cheeks were teetering on looking hollow. He was still too thin; he'd always been built like a greyhound, lean and long, but now it was unhealthy. Skin that was generally so fair it looked nigh on translucent was beginning to take on a true sallow look; even his lips were dry and cracked.

A sudden noise had his eyes narrowing; the Carrows weren't due for a couple of hours, there were no students in the castle yet, the rest of the staff were all far too busy plotting his death at their hands…

 _Oh, fuck! What?_

He whipped around at the sound of sliding wood and darted back into the bedroom just in time to see the drawer of his bedside table _move_. It eased itself open slowly, almost cautiously; he could almost picture someone standing back and taking a good look at whatever was inside, but a wave of his wand showed that there was no one at all in the room. And then, slightly louder this time, the door was shoved shut with a force that had him sprinting to the table.

He tried every damn diagnostic spell he could think of and _still_ nothing revealed itself. No enchantments, no curses – nothing!

"Bloody buggering hell…"

Severus directed a scowl at the innocent looking piece of furniture. Low in height (it barely came up to his knee) and made of a smooth, dark material that he guessed was rosewood, it was unassuming and plain. There were no embellishments, no foolish carvings; it was completely different to the rest of the furniture that was almost garish in its ostentatiousness.

It was utterly deceptive.

Oh, he'd opened it earlier that morning of course – he'd seen that the other letter, the first one, was gone. But his head was throbbing so much that for once he'd assumed that the alcohol fuelled night had lent itself to giving him strange hallucinations.

Apparently not.

The letter flew into his waiting hand and he read through it quickly; by the time he reached the 'H', he was fighting off rising bile in his stomach.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody fucking hell – something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Wrong with Potter or Weasley or maybe another minion, one that'd gotten the Trio into trouble, trouble that had surely meant they'd been captured overnight, strung up for Order bait or… Or to trick _him._ It was her.

There was no doubt in it; no one else wrote like that. Not so much the precise flowing letters in old cursive (the 'p' in 'point' was openly curved for Merlin's sake, like she was some aristocratic Muggle _lady_ ) but the _tone_ of it all. The dripping disdain etched into the script, the natural condescension. All directed at him.

But that was not the issue. It did not relate to the 'Greater Good' – well, it might, as everyone else was supposed to believe that he was a pariah after all (though it did hurt to believe that _she_ did _,_ the one who he'd assumed would be the _only_ person to dig further) – but what it _did_ reveal was that somehow she was sending him messages, begging him to guide the students into the 'Light', as if there was a choice in it. As if there was a way for him to do it.

Almost as if someone was speaking into her little ear – at that, an image of curly black hair and long, insane fingernails flashed into his mind – and telling her just what to say to draw him out of the bat cave and into revealing his 'true' allegiances.

Bellatrix could sod off. He'd have heard if they had been captured.

Wouldn't he?

But how the _fuck_ was Hermione fucking Granger writing him a letter?

…

 **1998**

The letter was gone. Gone, gone, gone.

Hermione flew into the sitting room and collapsed onto one of the upholstered chairs in front of the fire. The letter was gone.

Was it _gone_ gone? As in, taken? Or vanished?

Had she placed the letter into an equivalent of the vanishing cabinet? No… Hermione shook her head. She didn't think so. There was nothing about it in…

She stuck out her hand and summoned 'Hogwarts: A History'; it shot into her waiting hands with a thunk from its place in the middle of the second bookcase. Muttering a spell that she'd developed in her fifth year, she watched as pages flicked in front of her, searching for _rosewood, bedside table, Headmaster's bedroom, magical._

No results.

She sat back in the chair and breathed in and out until her pounding heart calmed.

Which was all for nothing when she heard the drawer to the bedside table jerk open in the other room. Only seconds later, a folded piece of parchment appeared on her lap.

…

 **1997**

' _Miss Granger -_

 _Explain yourself._

 _Now._ _'_

Severus penned the letter and crouched down in front of the bedside table to test his theory. In a movement so quick it was almost a blur, he threw it into the drawer, closed it, then pulled it open a moment later.

Yes – just as he thought it would be, the letter was gone.

…

 **1998**

Her legs couldn't move any faster. She ran into the bedroom and, without any of her usual grace, whirled her wand around. There was _no_ trace of anything. Not even the little bedside table had any remnants of magic other than her own.

Hermione's mind was filled with swirling, curling thoughts – the loudest, the most prominent, was the one shouting into her ear that there was only _one_ man who had _ever_ written to her in such a way before. Essay upon essay flew through her head, countless pictures of a spidery red script: 'Elaborate, Miss Granger' or 'Not enough, Miss Granger,' or 'Think for  yourself, Miss Granger'.

With anticipation so acute it was painful, Hermione whispered at length, " _Finite Incantatem._ "

At her words, the plain block letters on the letter transformed to the small, silky letters that surely she was never meant to see again.

Impossible!

Wasn't it?

…

 **1997**

Severus had already deduced enough to know that wherever his reply went, it wasn't back to him. The drawer was… what? An intermediary, in a way. The letter was delivered to him within it, he had seen with his own eyes that it opened and closed with the natural time length of an actual hand instigating the action. Had she managed to get a house elf to deliver it? Elf magic was not his speciality; perhaps they were utilising some old form of disguising themselves?

What a bloody nightmare.

He sat down on the bed and watched the piece of furniture like a hawk; he was a patient man, and would reap the benefits of waiting. His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. Breakfast could wait, for now.

What could this – all of this – mean? Were the children in even more danger than they actually were? Had _she_ beencaptured?

Sighing, he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees, raking a pale hand through his flat hair. It would do him no good to pretend that the idea of Hermione being captured was more painful, harder to deal with, than any of the others. Potter was crucial, yes, but he was also a fool, much like his faithful sidekick Weasley.

But Granger… she was the backbone of the Trio. And secretly, he admired her. Not any more than he should – no, he knew that she would become a beautiful young woman, no matter how unconventional her features were (that horrid hair!), though that wasn't it – but perhaps he admired her at the level that her intellect, her curiosity, deserved.

Severus had always thought of Hermione Granger as the epitome of innocence – she was nothing like his Lady D'Arbanville, his Lily of the Valley, the flame haired woman that had captured hearts as quickly as she slid their owners her little sideways glances from underneath her lashes. There was nothing calculating about Granger.

Or was there?

He was sure that he was wrong about her, in some way or form. It was _that_ that enticed him, sparked his interest. And when had that started, exactly? He knew the moment, glad that he had a photographic memory because Merlin knew that pensieves weren't designed to be used for things such as this.

He had been for a run in the dead of night, the only time he had the freedom to follow the path past the Forest in his old battered shirt and threadbare trackpants. If any Slytherins had seen him in such clothing, he would've been dead the next day, and so night it always was. It was in her…what… sixth year. Last year. When she was a prefect, and came into the Hall on her first day all polished with her proud little badge glinting and then garnered more of his respect when she staggered in for breakfast a week later with wild, awful hair again and the badge pinned haphazardly to the falling neck of her robes.

He'd been bent over at the waist, catching his breath. He always took the long way back to the dungeons on the nights that he ran – the older members of his House had worked out most of the secret passages, but there was no fucking way they'd take the corridors that went past the Gryffindor side of town – and that night was no exception.

The night was quiet, still. Argus was further down in the depths of the castle, keeping his way clear (the benefits to a good working relationship with Filch far exceeded the annoyance of curled lips from others when they saw the two walking together). He was walking slowly, hooded jumper tossed over his arm; it was always warmer away from the dungeons.

There'd been a noise; a small one, a sharp intake of breath in surprise. Whipping around, he came face to face with Hermione Granger, staring not at his flushed cheeks but at his heaving chest covered in a flaking picture of a Cat Stevens album. Possibly the worst choice, not that he'd intended to bump into a student past midnight.

"Miss Granger," he bit out, grinding his teeth together to stop a shout of anger as he watched her eyes travel slowly from his feet back to the shirt, narrowing in on the faded words. He was too stunned by her blatant perusal to insult her, though he should have.

"Miss _Granger_ ," he tried again, voice lower, more scathing. This time her head snapped up and wide tea coloured eyes connected with his own onyx gaze.

"Oh. S-sorry, sir. My apologies." She shifted on her feet, drawing attention to her skin tight grey jeans and too-large shirt. A men's shirt? Severus cocked an eyebrow.

"For what, Miss Granger?"

"Hmm? What? What do you mean, sir? 'For what'?" The bemused shake of her head was humorous enough to send his mouth quirking. He couldn't even fight it; he was always in a good mood after a run.

"What are you _sorry_ for?" he asked, voice just above a whisper. The time she needed to gather her thoughts was longer than usual, and he took in her messy hair, half restrained, and slippers adorned with strange blinking eyes, a nose and abnormally large whiskers. When he raised his head after inspecting the ridiculous looking things, he almost laughed to see her challenging glare. Good. At least he'd have something to entertain himself with, then.

"Well," she began with a huff, "nothing, to be honest."

"Oh?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes. Nothing. Obviously you did not wish to be seen with your…" her eyes dragged over his shirt again, "attire, and yet here I am. Seeing you."

She was always too perceptive. "Your point, Miss Granger?"

"I don't have one. I was going to the kitchens and ran into my Professor in a Cat Stevens shirt. Merlin, I've seen _McGonagall_ wearing worse."

"Ah. Her Cyndi Lauper jumper?" Gods, he was enjoying this.

"The very same," she sniffed. "Anyway – my point is that you've run into the only person who doesn't particularly _care._ So, apologising was merely a reflex. I didn't mean it. Goodnight, sir."

"Going to the kitchens? To see your _paramour?_ " He shouldn't have said it, but really. Walking around in an old navy blue men's t-shirt?

"My what? Are you daft? Oh, shite," she clapped her hands over her mouth at his furious expression. "Sorry. Oh, gods… I didn't mean that. Sorry. I'll just be-"

"No you won't. Back to your dorm, Miss Granger. _Now._ "

"Right," she mumbled and pivoted on her heel. "Sorry again. You're truly not daft. In fact, you're probably the smartest person in this castle and I'm including the Headmaster in that count. I certainly didn't mean to imply that-"

" _Miss Granger_ ," he growled, jerking his chin to remind her. "Leave."

"Yes, yes, I'm _going!_ " she spat out, much to his amusement though he was stumped when she glared over her shoulder at him and said, "And there's no paramour! Who do you think I am? This is more comfortable than any flimsy thing from Madam Malkins, thank you very much."

Not even his, "Five points from Gryffindor for being out of bed," was enough to have her steps pause, though she did wave her hand in the air when she turned the final corner and was out of his sight.

Finally, after casting a _muffliato_ and jogging to a deserted corridor, he gave in and laughed harder than he had in years.

…

He knew it.

Not even five minutes later, he watched with amazement as the drawer opened and closed in front of his eyes.

"Well, fuck."

Naturally, he dove in and tore open the parchment, reading it so quickly that his lips mouthed the words at the same time that his brain began to process them.

/

' _How is this happening? Is it you? Really you?_

 _Tell me now, or I'll call up a_ fiendfyre _and incinerate this entire bedroom. Because if it's not you, then the alternative is that I'm imagining things and I'd rather like to keep my wits about me._

 _H.'_

 _/_

He couldn't resist. Not even Bellatrix would write her like this, mad with curiosity.

/

' _Miss Granger,_

 _Who else would it be? You are sending letters to the Headmaster of Hogwarts. I am the Headmaster._

 _Now, my demand remains the same. Explain yourself._

 _And since you are determined to write in such a childish manner as if you were searching for Carmen Sandiago, then I shall sign off as such:_

 _-S.'_

 _/_

' _I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT!_

 _How is this happening?_

 _H.'_

 _/_

' _Miss Granger,_

 _That was_ _my_ _question. If you wish to continue this charade of stupidity, then you will_ _explain_ _what the_ _hell_ _you are doing._

 _S.'_

 _/_

' _Right. Hang on, then. Don't move. I have a theory and I'll write it all out but it's going to take me a couple of minutes._

 _Jesus Christ, I cannot believe this is happening._

 _DON'T MOVE._

 _H.'_

 _/_

' _H,_

 _I am not a deity, no matter how highly you seem to think of my talents._

 _You have five minutes._

 _S.'_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:**_ _A reminder that this story will work in the same way as 'As Is'; namely, that if we get to 100 reviews, whoever gets the magic number can have a SS/HG oneshot tailored to their… needs._

 _And I know I've got clear dates written here, but honestly, after kids I can barely remember how I take my coffee so long as it's strong, let alone the exact date that such and such happened. I promise to at least get the year right. Maybe._

 _Onwards we go, to a chapter in which Hermione is too much of a Gryffindor for our Slytherin. Next time, Hermione does something about our innocent little bedside table._

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

 **1998**

She didn't have a theory. Not really – or at least, not anything that he would believe. After all, how could Hermione even begin to explain that the Professor was communicating with one of his students who had last seen him bleeding out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack four months ago?

Tapping the pen on her thigh, she knelt down in front of the bedside table, mind churning. The main advantage to whatever explanation that could be conjured was that there were no coal black eyes to examine the level of truth – Snape could not force the answer with Legilimency. And yet, if what she _did_ think was right, then Professor Snape was in the past, at the most volatile period before the final Battle. Anything she said could change the outcome, like the butterfly effect; it could be just as catastrophic.

Although, surely that was underestimating the man? He was a sensational liar – evidently, secrets could be kept within his mind that would never be revealed if he did not wish them to be.

But could she heap such an extra weight on his shoulders? To write, in cold hard ink, that unless a solution could be found, he would be dead within the year?

Hermione let the parchment fall to the floor and sunk down to sit cross legged, her head in her hands. She could; she could summon strength and guts and stones and tell him that the time would come when he would have to fight like hell to live. Because now that she had the chance, there must be ways to keep him safe, to hide him until their natural timelines crossed and she could do her best to protect him.

The problem was whether or not he would wish to. Live, that is. And if he would accept such things being written by _her._

She'd seen his memories – thankfully, not many had; the trial had been closed and only key witnesses (Kingsley, Dumbledore's portrait, Draco Malfoy, Remus and Poppy Pomfrey, plus Harry, Ron and Hermione as they could verify that his memories had been given before his death) knew the entire story. But for such a private man, that was six too many.

Naturally Skeeter had spun her own version of it all, but no one's name had remained untouched in that regard.

Dumbledore had known Snape's secrets, of course, and Poppy's detailed records meant that the nurse had put two and two together years ago. Yet Hermione was sure that if the Professor had had a choice, no one else would know of his feelings for Harry's mother, and the promise he had made in her name.

And that was fair enough – he had given everything to the war, to the Light. Why should his personal memories be given, too?

Privately, Hermione thought that Dumbledore had been a right bastard about the whole ordeal, but no one seemed to want to hear such things.

 _He might well take one look at what I have to say and toss it into the fire. And I don't think that I could blame him for it._

With a sigh of resignation, she picked up the pen and began to write.

 _/_

' _Professor,_

 _I would like your word that you will read every single word of what I am about to send, and that you will respond to it._

 _H.'_

 _/_

That was certainly more daring than Hermione had intended to be. She rocked back on her heels after placing the letter into the drawer, waiting impatiently. It was a very long thirty seconds before his response fell into her lap.

 _/_

' _Miss Granger,_

 _Write whatever it is you wish to say._

 _Perhaps you have some measure of intelligence left to understand that I do not have all day._

 _S.'_

 _/_

Hermione huffed and screwed up her mouth. Fine! Let him have it his way, then. To hell with her careful explanations.

/

' _Professor –_

 _What date is it?_

 _H.'_

 _/_

' _Miss Granger –_

 _You are wasting my time._

 _25_ _th_ _of August, 1997. Have you hit your head?_

 _S.'_

 _/_

"One year!" she exclaimed, her eyes fit to bust. "Bloody hell…"

One year ago, he was getting ready to 'welcome' the returning students. One year ago, he was preparing himself for taking on the role of Headmaster publicly; looking around the bedroom now, she could almost picture him sitting exactly where she was, exhausted and frustrated with the knowledge that there was not one single person alive that understood his true allegiance.

And one year ago, she, too, was desolate and confused, trying to adjust to the way the world was changing around her when she, for once, had no plan to better it.

Not anymore.

"Whether you like it or not, Professor," she vowed quietly, "you'll have me. And you'd better get ruddy well used to it."

/

' _Sir, this is going to be the most farfetched letter you will have received in your life thus far, I am quite sure of it. But I have no other option; you will think me more of a dunderhead than you already do, perhaps you might even laugh. Oh well. Bit between one's teeth and all that rot._

 _Here we go._

 _It is currently the 25_ _th_ _of August, 199_ _ **8**_ _.Yes. Nineteen ninety eight. One year ahead of where you are now._

 _At this exact moment, I am in the Headmaster's bedroom, sitting in front of the rosewood bedside table. I have no idea how my letter, destined for the incoming Headmaster_ _after_ _you, arrived_ _to_ _you. I have my suspicions, but five minutes is not enough time to turn the library upside down to confirm them, so that will have to wait._

 _The most important thing to tell you, if indeed this is real and you are sitting near where I am now, with twelve months between us, is this: we have won the war, Professor. It is over. In fact, it will be over for you in less than a year. This year will be your hardest yet, but these are the last months of serving your 'other' Master._

 _Some of us came out unscathed, physically at least… most did not._

 _Forgive me, but I will go no further until you're convinced that I'm not hiding out in the greenhouses partaking in some of Sprout's hidden stash (thought I didn't know about that? Well that's one example to give that times have changed)._

 _I am not so idiotic that I will request that you believe what I am writing. I am sure that you think I am writing from wherever we were hiding this time last year; to be honest, I cannot even remember where that was. But I have my diary._

 _Give me the chance._

 _Let me prove it to you._

 _H.'_

 _/_

Hermione was not surprised when she sat for an hour, her lower body cramping and complaining from sitting on the floor.

She received no reply.

…

 **1997**

Severus stared at the letter, fighting to push the rising sense of anger and disappointment behind his mental shields. Of all the fucking things that could have gone wrong…

Had she lost her mind? She had.

Bloody hell.

It was not the first time he'd thought such a thing about Granger – in fact, he remembered that very sentence running through his mind the first time she appeared with Potter and Weasley in their first year. Now, it was because she had somehow decided that she was a year in the future, and that the War was over. Delusional, indeed – no matter how much he'd want it to be true, it was all too convenient. A letter in his own drawer? Enough information to know it was her right off the bat? Then a missive as clear as black and white saying that the red eyed bastard was dead?

Right. If the Dark Lord was dead and she was in his office a year in the future, then he was a war hero with an Order of Merlin.

"Not bloody likely," he grumbled.

He tossed the parchment onto the bed and glowered at it, as if the force of his scowl could incinerate the damn thing. Though for reasons he knew not, he snatched it up when the corner began to smoke.

Dressing in seconds, he made his way down the stairs and into the main office.

"Albus," he said curtly, greeting the sleeping portrait with a nod of his head. "Phineas…?"

He looked around the room, then nodded again when the bearded man sidled into view and sat down on the stuffy chair in his portrait.

"Headmaster," Phineas Black returned with a wry grin. "So lovely to see you. You look well rested and jolly; with good reason, I'm sure."

"Sod off."

Black barked out a laugh and shook his head. "Manners, boy. Have you forgotten to whom you are speaking?"

"A pest, a nuisance, a thorn in my side…" Severus trailed off with a small shrug while adjusting his glasses and turning his attention to the papers on the heavy oak desk. There was a never ending list of things to do, rooms to ready. More secret passages would have to be opened up, with obvious enough hints that students would duck behind tapestries to hide within them, but not so apparent that the Carrows would be able to come to the same conclusions. But first, there was a more pressing issue.

"Your portrait that is at Grimmauld Place…"

"What of it? It's still there. In pride of place, of course."

Severus snorted. "Yes, one could indeed call your position a _pride of place._ Regardless, you should be prepared."

"Why? What does a portrait need to be prepared for, boy? Other than my very _valued_ existence within this office, there's really not much happening at Grimmauld at the moment."

"Ah. Thank you." Severus tipped his head, acknowledging the obscure hint that Grimmauld must be a riot house. At another time, he might have gloated over such a thing, but now…

He'd always felt like an outsider, yet here was Hermione Granger, insufferable chit and lover of all things downtrodden, writing to him with kindness and confidence, as if she never doubted him once. He found that he couldn't quite enjoy knowing that where she was now was no longer the calm safe haven that it once was. Even if that did make him dangerously close to being one of her little projects.

"Do not mention it," Black responded eventually. "And there seems to be more… _friends_ that have come to visit."

"There'll be more in the coming days," he replied darkly, running a hand through his hair. Death Eaters had been stationed as close to the property as they could get; like a stubborn leaking pipe, their presence would only get louder.

"They'll be made aware," said Black, looking to the side. The former Headmaster was always very Slytherin about the assistance he gave to the office and the Order – at least for appearances sake.

"Now, as for your portrait… I expect that you might be taken on a little trip soon. The children-"

"Ahh, the trio will be taking me on a delightful sojourn, will they? Interesting idea, though I hope for my sake that you're incorrect. My instincts say that you may, unfortunately, be right, though it wouldn't be Potter's idea. Not Weasley's, either. Of course it would be the Mudb-"

Severus stood and slammed his hands onto the desk. "Black," he snarled, "do _not_ use that _word_ in my presence again. I will silence you, no matter how useful you seem to think you are."

And it wasn't just the memory of his Lily that made him react in such a way. Whatever was happening with Granger, she'd shown him kindness; she should never be reduced to a single word, let alone one that carried such tainted weight to its meaning.

Unperturbed, Phineas spread his hands. "You wish for me to use another term? Fine. But you will have to get used to it. Your _colleagues_ will be arriving soon."

"For Merlin's sake, Black," he spat out, "not now. I will hear it from them because I have to. You, however…"

"Enough, boy." Phineas waved a hand at the other grumbling portraits and shot Severus an annoyed look, prompting the new Headmaster to smirk.

"Far be it from me to remove the daily entertainment for the other portraits," he sneered. "Now – to the more important matters at hand. _If_ you are taken anywhere, I expect that you will be _honourable_ enough to offer as much assistance as possible to the children. Make it spare; anything too detailed might encourage them to return before what they are setting out to achieve is done."

Taking a sip of the strong black coffee that appeared on his desk, he continued on in a more pleasant tone, "It has always been my understanding that your faculties are more together than others in this room-" he looked meaningfully at Dumbledore, sleeping, as always, and inwardly grinned when Phineas puffed his chest out importantly "-and so I have no doubt that you will also be able to keep me abreast of any vital happenings. Nothing is to be said in the presence of others and _nothing at all_ in front of the children. They cannot know of my involvement."

Perhaps it would have been harder to condemn himself yet again if he did not have a letter in his pocket that said that someone _did_ know. Not that he would ever admit it, but Severus was already feeling a sense of calm in his mind; if only Albus had understood that all it would have ever really taken to improve the load on his shoulders was a bit of empathy… he shook his head minutely and took another swig of coffee.

"You do not need to force feed me, boy," Black said with a scowl. "It seems that you are not so old that you do not still carry the childish belief that you are right in everything-"

"Oh, bugger off, Phineas. Save your lecture for the next Headmaster. I hope for your sake that it's a Gryffindor yet again."

"Perish the thought," the Slytherin muttered. "Excuse me. I believe I am unwelcome, and so I shall return to greener pastures."

Covering his mouth to hide his chuckle, Severus raised his voice to be heard when Phineas began to disappear from view, "Yes, because we all know that you will return. The lure of another Slytherin in this chair will be irresistible. I'll see you this evening."

Severus leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, taking a moment to massage his temples. The Carrows would be at the castle in a matter of hours; any time he could have used to respond to Granger was long past.

He left the office in a hurry, the piece of parchment a small comfort in his pocket. He was almost completely sure that Granger was mad, but he wasn't above corresponding with someone who had a few screws loose upstairs. This little fantasy world of hers was ridiculously fucked, but it certainly was entertaining. Besides, if she spent up all of her intelligence on her two dunderheaded companions, he was still not about to complain if any scraps of it were scattered onto the floor for him to pick up.

But not yet. If she wanted to prove her thread of insanity, she could do it on her own time, not his.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own these two fantastic characters, and I am more than happy that I don't so I can play to my heart's content. The title is from the well known poem 'To His Coy Mistress' – Andrew Marvell. _Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime / We would sit down and think which way / To walk and pass our long love's day._ This is inspired heavily by the S. Korean film 'Il Mare', which you might recognise was also made into a Western film named 'The Lake House'. Let's begin!

 _ **A/N:**_ _Moving a bit quicker now, because I'm terrible at longer stories and I'm rather impatient. I've c &p the disclaimer again, have forgotten most of the time, whoops. _

* * *

**Chapter 5**

 **1998**

"I've lost him, haven't I? _Gods!_ He doesn't believe me."

"Did you really expect him to, girl? Honestly. That's disappointing, especially coming from you."

"There was a compliment somewhere in there, you know. You're losing your bite."

"I most certainly am not. But I think that _you_ are – what did you think he would do? Fall on his knees and write back, begging you to tell him the secrets of the universe? Of course he won't believe you! It sounds ridiculous, even to me."

"What do you mean? ' _Even to me'_? Oh, don't give me that look, Phineas. You worked your way around the gag on the office years ago."

The former Headmaster sniffed indignantly and stared down his nose at Hermione, who was leaning back against the headboard of the bed, an open book in her lap. She returned his sullen look, crossing her arms over her chest. Really, the man ought to be more forthcoming by now! He'd had a blank portrait in her room since she'd walked in and begun filling her bookcase months ago – the least he could do was leave her some crumbs to go by.

It had been almost a week since she'd written the ridiculous letter to Snape. He had not written one single word, except for a quick note in response to her three, pleading missives sent afterwards:

/

 _Granger,_

 _Enough with this fantasy. I will not play along. If you need inspiration, for Merlin's sake, go to the greenhouses since you know so much about Sprout's stash. Contrary to your belief that it is sacred knowledge, Longbottom has frequented it since third year._

 _But I swear on this office that if you get caught, I will not hesitate to shove your delusional backside onto a broom and charm it to push you off over the Forbidden Forest._

 _This ends now._

 _S._

 _/_

She read the letter out loud again, pointedly ignoring Black's snort of amusement. "Leave off, Phineas," she muttered. "This is practically a love letter compared to what he could have actually said."

"Well, that's true," the portrait said with a thoughtful look that surprised Hermione to no end. It wasn't that she _enjoyed_ Phineas' company, but there was something comforting about the familiar snarky wit of a Slytherin to come home to at the end of the day. That being said, she had made up a set of curtains to cover him for when he deemed it worth his while to get a bit mouthy.

"I think you're going about this the wrong way," he mused. "Not that I believe there is a _right_ way. For all I know, you're mad. I have had suspicions, of course-"

"Phineas!"

Black huffed and cocked a bushy eyebrow. "Don't tell me you haven't thought the same thing. Conversing with a man from the past? Impossible, nay?"

"Of course it is. But despite what you both think, I'm not delusional."

"Ah, yes. The brightest swot of her age."

Hermione grumbled unintelligibly. "I'll close your curtains," she threatened, hooting out a short laugh when he held his hands up with a high pitched, "Oooh!"

"Just give me a hint," she demanded, patience all wrung out and hung on the line to dry. She closed the book carefully and sent it back to the bookcase with a wave of her hand, not in the mood for Potions when the instructor she wanted wasn't around. "You were in his office last year! Tell me if I'm mad or not."

"You're mad."

Rolling her eyes, she slipped under the covers and punched the fluffy white pillow under her head. "All right. You've been ever so helpful. Have an enjoyable evening, you big grump."

And just as she reached for her wand to close his curtains and extinguish the candles, Phineas coughed loudly. "Granger…"

"What now?"

"The portrait."

"Yours? What of it?"

"Not mine…"

She sat up with a gasp. "Snape's! Of course! But… where is it?"

Phineas smirked and stood up from his chair to lean against the frame, preparing to leave. "Haven't the foggiest, and don't try to find it, that's not my point. But there's a funny rumour going around… word has it that it's never woken up. Good night, Granger."

Her startled shriek had him running out of the frame, and she leapt out of the bed to bang on the wall beside his empty portrait. "Phineas! Come back! You sly dog, you can't leave me with that and disappear!"

His laughing voice answered as if it were within a bubble, and she knew he was in one of his other portraits, probably laughing his aged buttocks off, "Think, girl. _Think!_ "

"Thanks to you, I'll be doing that all night! Cheese and ruddy rice," she added in a whisper, rubbing her eyelids. "What does that even _mean?_ If a portrait hasn't woken, then surely that suggests that… Oh… _Fuck!_ "

…

The quiet announcement was made the next morning, a sort of private reward for those who had stayed on. The rest of the students were returning in the evening, but there was already a sense of camaraderie building between the staff and older students. Still groggy from barely any sleep, Hermione remembered to clap along with everyone else when Minerva was formally named the next Headmistress at breakfast, then shocked Neville who was sitting beside her when she squeaked and ran out of the Hall.

Thankfully, her exit went unnoticed by most, and Minerva's speech was due to be followed by one of Flitwick's legendary (and lengthy) inspirational toasts, so there would be enough time for what she was hoping to achieve. It was the Slytherin thing to do, if she was honest about it, yet she was still terribly nervous.

After spending the night half in thought, she'd managed to settle on one, astoundingly interesting conclusion. It almost sent her round the twist, until Hermione was forced to meditate in a lotus pose on the middle of her bed, remembering that her entire magical life thus far had been like being stuck inside a washing machine.

This wasn't any different, really.

There was a large stack of parchment currently sitting on the desk in her rooms that attested to her madness, but it was all rather exciting – if it was true, that is.

The first thing Hermione had decided was that she was dealing with an ally that she had overlooked in the past: Hogwarts. Not the school per se, but the castle itself. There were faint tingling nudges in her mind, suggesting that she had heard such a thing from Binns or even Dumbledore during his rambling moods, but that was very different to actually _experiencing_ it.

The castle seemed to have a mind of its own. Sentient, even; aware. Every student had always _known_ such a thing, given the hints like the staircases and randomly appearing secret passages that probably weren't so random to begin with. But this was certainly new – she'd charmed the letter to go to the Headmaster, and a fixture within the castle (a very unassuming little bedside table) had delivered it. To the only man that was the actual Headmaster at the time.

And to top it all off, there was the main conundrum: the letters were going to the Headmaster, and somehow crossing the barriers of time to do so. Not just a day or an hour like her old Time Turner, but a whole ruddy year!

It was almost easier to decide that it was a confusing part of magic that she would never understand. When the dust settled years down the track (for a Gryffindor never stepped away from a seemingly impossible task, even if the main hurdle was Severus Snape himself), Hermione had decided to talk to the Department of Mysteries. To that end, she had recorded every aspect of their communication thus far.

The next problem was what to _do_ about it all. _How_ could she make it so that Professor Snape survived? Oh, she could make suggestions about potions to counteract the venom, maybe even send him vials of dittany and blood replenishing potions through the drawer, if it would accept them.

That was all well and good, but how would their timelines cross? She was conversing with him a year in the future – would she not always do so? There were two distinct threads of time that needed to overlap in order for his past self and her current self to meet in _her_ time, yes? Or was there a man out in the world right now that was a product of her currently rather ridiculous looking dash up the stairs to the Headmistress' quarters for her attempt at grand theft auto/bedside table?

That thought brought her skidding to a stop. She had to hold a hand out to the wall to stop from falling over with the idea that right now, right this minute, Severus Snape could be _alive!_ If she succeeded in her self-appointed 'mission', then by all likelihood, the finished product would technically be _living_ at this very moment.

"Then where the bloody hell is he? If he's alive somewhere right now, where is he? Or have I hidden him?" Hermione let out a groan of frustration and tugged on the end of her plait.

But did that mean that if she simply did nothing now, he would still live on somehow? No, surely not, because she had to _tell_ him to avoid death in _her_ time, so he would listen in the _past_ , and in turn be alive in her current time… Hermione chewed on her lip, a deep line between her brows as she tried to make sense of her jumbled mind.

Merlin's beard – it was enough to send a woman bonkers.

Returning to her earlier decision to simply fob it all off and not try and examine the issue too much, she settled for one thing: Time was a fickle bitch, and she was going to beat it. Somehow.

Which brought her to her hurried job for the morning: to steal an item of furniture from Minerva McGonagall's new private chambers.

…

Much later, when the castle had quietened from the Welcome Feast and everyone else had gone to bed, Hermione and Phineas Black shared twin smirks at the new addition to her small collection of furniture.

"I truly am stunned that you did it, my girl."

Hermione blew a stray hair off her face and stood in front of Black's portrait, hands on her hips and attempting not to preen. 'My girl', indeed!

 _Oh, sod it_! She tossed her head and smiled; it widened immediately into a grin when Phineas rolled his eyes at her antics.

"Yes, well. It wasn't as difficult as I thought… it was almost like it _wanted_ to come with me."

"Yes," he deadpanned. "Furniture having thoughts… Imagine that."

Hermione waved a hand at the grump and stared at her new, rosewood bedside table. The old one had been transfigured into a set of shelves for the wall, while her pen became a replica of the original piece and now was beside Minerva's bed.

"Anyway," she breezed on with a laugh, "I've always been good at Transfiguration. But…" she panicked then stood with the tip of her nose almost touching the portrait. "Do you think it was _too_ easy?"

"You mean, do I think that a set of chambers that has largely been inhabited by Gryffindors is protected against the theft of a bedside table? Miss Granger – surely you do not believe such things of me, a Slytherin?"

"Mm. True." She tapped a nail on her front teeth. "And my approach? Your thoughts, Headmaster?"

"You're learning, Granger. To come to me and not…"

"Minerva?" she supplied, then smiled gently. "Dumbledore? Who else would you suggest? I mean really – who actually _listened_ to Professor Snape? Apart from you, that is."

Phineas sighed and sank deeper into his chair. He looked deep in thought for a good few minutes, and she moved back to sit on her bed. It wasn't lost on her that she held a good set of cards in her hands – the trump was right in front of her; a portrait that was more capable of rational, independent thought than any other within the walls of Hogwarts. And thanks to her solid research during the first few weeks after the last Battle, she knew that Black had formed a relationship of sorts with the Slytherin Headmaster. It wouldn't hurt to employ tactics from a House so different from her own, which was what had inspired Hermione to keep a blank frame for him in the first place.

It was a completely unexpected, yet very welcome, bonus that Phineas Black was willing to assist in her strange problem. In his own way.

"My girl," he said slowly, "perhaps this will not be enjoyable… for you, or Severus, I should think. But you need to shock him. Shock him enough to make him listen, if only for a few minutes. He thinks you deranged at the moment, it seems, and you are slightly," he tipped his head with a sly grin, "but your task is an important one. Have you still got your diary?"

"I do," she said immediately, fishing it out from a drawer in her desk, beginning to flip through it absentmindedly. "It has… everything."

And indeed it did. Hermione had documented everything – every movement of Snape that had been witnessed was recorded, every action by the D.A. while he was Headmaster had been written down. Beyond that, every death along with its date was in the diary, a tribute, of sorts. Snape's was the first, not that she would admit it to anyone other than the man in the portrait; as stern and rude as he was, Black was the only one who seemed to really _care_.

"Then first you should answer me this, Granger."

She tensed and nodded, prepared for an insult and not the words that came out of his mouth.

"What do you think will become of this? This _common bond_ between yourself and Severus Snape? Obviously it has been established now, and this playground of a castle will continue to facilitate your correspondence, even though Minerva has taken up the helm. That decision was made days ago, and he has been able to respond to you since. So, again – what do you want to come of all of this?"

Mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish, her shoulders sagged. She felt _weary_ of everything; it was all so bloody _hard._ All she wanted was to _help_.

"I don't know," she said in a small voice. "Nothing, to be honest. I mean, I'd like to… I'd like… oh. I don't know, Headmaster. I'd like to be his friend… even an acquaintance. Something. Gods… I've no clue. It's just so _sad_ – I'm not stupid enough to pity him, but really, I'd like to have a pint with the man." No matter how comfortable she felt around Black, there was no chance of confessing that she had held an attraction for Professor Snape since her fifth year. It wasn't what was motivating her – she knew a lost cause when she saw one. Or rather, when she admired the hands, voice, intellect and strength of one.

After a long look, Phineas disappeared for a moment, causing her to snort when she heard the echoes of 'unseemly' bellows of laughter.

"A pint?" he spluttered when he'd recovered enough to present a decorous façade. "Alright. I'll help. And he'll need that pint, my girl. Just take a frame along for me to watch, will you?"

"Phineas, if I don't cock this up, I'll keep a frame around my _neck_."

"Careful. Don't say what you can't follow through with."

"Eh. Let's sort it out when it happens. You'll get something, anyway. Now, if I follow on your train of thought and add to it, I think you're telling me to do something very harsh, aren't you?"

"I am. But I wouldn't worry much – he'll have known about it. It's just going to start him thinking, and that won't be nice to be on the receiving end of while he works his mind around it all. Anyway, it's late, girl. Write your letter, and go to bed. Get up early so you can give me his reply, hmm?"

She offered him a smiling salute, and flipped the curtains shut on the portrait. Swallowing her rising sense of unease, she took her biro and tore off a scrap of parchment.

"Now or never," she whispered to herself, then carefully placed the next letter into the drawer and let it close with a quiet prayer to whoever on earth or above it that might be listening for Snape to understand, or, if all else failed, that he would simply listen.

 _/_

 _Dear Professor,_

 _By my count, for you, it is the first of September, 1997. The students have returned, I assume. Though you may agree with me when I say that even though there are far less than last year, they will present no less of a challenge for you._

 _Good luck to you. You'll need it._

 _Going by your lack of response, I'll assume that you are still of the same opinion regarding my mental faculties. Please know now that I did not write this with the idea of upsetting you, or hurting you in any way. I'm sure that you knew this was coming but it will be no less difficult for you._

 _Forgive me._

 _Today is the first. By tomorrow evening, there will be a name to add to your list. I assume that you have kept one, as have I._

 _Gregorovitch._

 _And I am not so heartless as to stop there without something positive. On the same day, we will make some good progress, at the Ministry, no less. You will be frustrated at our audacity, I think, but we come out well enough._

 _Again… forgive me. I am not seeking to add weight to what you already carry. Selfishly, I am looking for a way to persuade you that I am not spinning a web of lies around you._

 _I await your reply._

 _Regards,_

 _H.'_

 _/_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**_ _ **Read please!**_ _Far out, I thought we'd take a lot longer to get to 100 reviews but we're almost there! Woohoo. I promised a one-shot for whoever makes the 100_ _th_ _review; that offer still stands. I'll try to watch and count myself, but PM me if I don't get to you first._

 _Moving faster now… I'm going by the massive jump in reviews and just want to give you all what you desire sooner rather than later! I'm glad everyone likes Phineas. The difference between his character in '97 and '98 is ridiculously fun to write. This was going to be longer, but I'm sticking by keeping the chapters shorter to update quicker, so there's a lovely scene in the next one to appease you all if you're keen for some proper interaction ;-)_

 _Thank you to all the guest reviewers - I hope you get an account so I can thank you properly ;-)_

 _And… as mentioned in the disclaimer, this is indeed inspired by Il Mare/The Lake House, although obviously is tailored completely to this fandom._

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

 **1997**

The letter went into the fire - but not before he memorised every single word.

There was still the all too real temptation that it was a farce, constructed within the mind of a young woman who was slowly losing control of her place in the world. Severus could understand that; after all, when had his own life ever gone the way he wished it did? Initially he felt unhinged when it became clear that Hermione Granger had chosen _him_ to receive her strange little messages. Now it just felt… familiar.

Reading her words almost brought on a strange sense of déjà vu, as if somewhere, somehow, he knew that every single scratch of her pen on parchment wrought truth. Naturally he was riled by the idea – how could she _know?_ Severus barely put any stock in with Divination; neither, he remembered, did Granger.

It wasn't even the small inclusion of their actions at the Ministry that had been front page news; if that was all it was, then he could have dismissed it for her sending wishful outcomes his way. Trying to lighten his load, in her own twisted style. He wouldn't blame her for such a thing – it was oddly comforting.

His suspicion was sparked by the mention of the European wand maker. Such an obscure moment to mention him; the majority of the inner circle were aware that the Dark Lord was interested in the man, which generally meant his eventual demise, but Hermione sodding Granger? There was no chance in Dante's nine circles that the little scrap of a girl would know of such a thing. At first he'd sniffed and disregarded the mention of Gregorovitch – if she knew every step that she and Potter had made, why not enlighten him? Why choose something that didn't even happen _here?_

But she'd been clever – too clever. She must have known that everything wasn't going to go to shit in the weeks since her letter, and so he'd spent time mulling over the hint that was elusive and overt all at once. He was now so close to believing her that it was driving him up the wall. He wanted more.

A log shifted in the fireplace, drawing Severus' attention back to the sitting room. The flames were crackling softly and he stared at them for a long moment, his mind blank. Slowly he rose and reached for the bottles on the shelf behind his chair, pale fingers flitting over the labels before settling on _rakijah,_ a relic from an old past time of cross cultural indulgences _._ The fiery liquid was downed in two long swallows, spreading much needed warmth through his veins. He tipped his head until it came to rest against the back of the chair, glad for the liquor that was giving him the courage to really think about the young woman behind all of the letters.

What was he to do about Hermione Granger?

Suppose she was right – that she knew what would come to pass, that she'd come to him of all people to shed light on events waiting to happen.

 _Why?_

Why him? Why choose him? Hadn't he done _enough_ to convince everyone that his heart was as black and shrivelled as the monster he served?

He was mad. Gods, was he mad. But he couldn't deny it – he _wanted_ it to be true.

Huffing out a breath, he wandered into the bedroom, shedding clothes as he walked. Piles of books and newspapers were pushed carelessly into corners of the room, methods of distraction that didn't often work.

It had been four hellish weeks since Granger's last letter; she'd given him time to digest it all, it seemed, and he had.

He'd barely thought of anything else – when he dealt with the Carrows, when he sneered in the faces of the children and his colleagues, or sat in the Manor with his impenetrable mask, his mind would stray to the kind, gentle words that she'd written, promising that it would all be over soon. He was so drawn to the tantalising glimpse that she'd given him of the future that it had become a battle not to demand every date, every day, every hour until it would end.

Surprisingly, he found that it was _almost_ bearable – all the shite he had to wade through. For he had Lily, still, in his mind, the way they used to be. And now he had this… _this._ Whatever it was. Not Granger, exactly – he still couldn't separate the writer of the letters from the girl that was somewhere out there running for her life – but a version of her that he wasn't completely averse to thinking of. He didn't even see her, this version, as his student anymore. Merlin knew that he would run free of the school the second he could; a few years ago he might have stayed on, but not now, not after being Headmaster. This was as bad as it got, and it was fucking awful. And so this woman, this hybrid of Granger and Lily and whatever else was just… a relief. A reprieve.

And he could not find a fuck to give, really, because he needed to call a spade a spade and acknowledge that there was not much he wished for more these days than a respite.

It was all buried within the walls of his mind, secure enough that he did not feel any of the emotion associated with his sickly hope during the day. It was only now, late at night in the quiet safety of his private rooms that he allowed his thoughts to wander.

If it was true – for he was still jaded enough to think that no such good luck would come to him in this way – then what would he do with his life? After it all ended, when the fires were put out, the bodies laid to rest (she'd hinted at death – whose?), what would he _do_?

Sinking down onto the bed, Severus toed off his socks and pulled his undershirt over his head then slipped under the sheets. The softness of the cotton was a balm on his bare skin, and he closed his eyes, picturing the paradise that he probably would never have. But imagining didn't hurt.

He'd go somewhere, for a little while at least. The witch would've already said if his future was Azkaban, surely, and he smirked into the air when he conjured up alternating images, sometimes bustling streets then quiet village lanes or quaint European cafes then warm, sticky heat from the Mediterranean sun on whitewashed buildings.

If he lived – truly lived, without stain or obligations, then he could do such things. Fob the world off for a while, disappear.

And he might even contact Granger.

Thoughts of sunlight and cool breezes and water led him to ponder the puzzling young woman. When he read her letters, he saw her with bushy, awful hair, leaning over a desk and scribbling furiously.

But here, where he was partly hidden in the depths of the night, he thought of a different woman. Still slim but fleshier, breasts heavier and hot in his palms. Hair wild, still, but longer and all encompassing; in his dreams, he would twirl a finger around a strand, examine the colours that drifted between shining red and brown. Her eyes were green, then in a different light, tea stained.

The woman was neither Granger, who he didn't know well enough to desire, nor Lily, who he had long laid to rest; she was some model of perfection that he would never attain, and didn't really want to. A perfect, seamless body, reserved for mindless pleasure.

He fell asleep with two thoughts; the first, that maybe he would find a woman when this was all over, with faults that he could map with his hands… breasts not flawless but that fit in his hands, a face with a nose too small or lips too thin, fleshiness on her stomach and thighs, calloused fingertips instead of a surface as smooth as a pearl.

The second thought was more chilling. Granger had not said one word about him, about his future. Before she'd dangled hope on a line and beckoned him towards it, he'd thought there would be nothing for him at all.

Because he would be dead.

And she had never mentioned that he wasn't.

…

 **1998**

The common room was often quiet at this time of night, just after curfew. Hermione entered through the portrait hole and smiled politely at the remaining younger years, tilting her head towards the stairs in a subtle reminder for them to head to their beds sooner rather than later.

Barely any of the older students were still downstairs. She almost wished that Ginny was still up, though she didn't begrudge her younger friend from the giggling conversations that were more than likely happening in the dorm rooms. Returning the greetings of Parvati and Lavender, she made her way to the door that separated the eighth year's rooms from the main quarters. The carpeted hallway was empty, with a few rooms branching off of it. Hers was right at the end, and she entered eagerly and headed straight for the shower.

It had been a long day… a long month, really. Studying took up much of her time, and the rest was spent in ways to push her away from thinking of Snape; she'd watched Quidditch practice, had endless cups of tea with Minerva, submitted to a session of 'girl talk' with Lavender and survived it (then discovered that she actually _liked_ the girl, which was a pleasant surprise), and used her free weekends – another benefit for the eighth years - to Apparate close to Muggle London. She'd spent hours one Saturday just walking through the streets, revelling in the freeing feeling that no one knew her face at first glance; no one paid her any attention at all.

Sundays generally found her in her parent's home, researching. The memory charm was permanent, that she already knew, and yet her strange, surreal experience with Snape made her think that if only there was the _possibility_ of undoing it… yet there wasn't. It was a futile exercise, but it became her weekly pilgrimage. She didn't quite care to dwell on the fact that this last Sunday had been spent packing up the house and sending letters to the local real estate to begin the process of putting it on the market. No, she didn't want to ruminate on that at all.

It felt like all she had was time. Time to wait, to study. Quite a humorous thing, really – during her main schooling years, all Hermione had ever wanted was for it all to be _over_ so that she could just give everything up and focus on mundane, regular things. And now that it was, now that Voldemort was dead, she found that she didn't really know just what to do with herself.

Ron had stayed to help with the reconstruction, and there had been a few awkward sessions of fumbling fingers and the unbuttoning of jeans, but when all was said and done, they'd parted as friends. Harry hadn't stepped inside Hogwarts since the Battle, not that anyone blamed him. Ginny had tucked him away somewhere until he could hold a cup of tea without his hand shaking; since the beginning of term, both boys had been living in Grimmauld Place to be close to the locations used in their Auror training.

It hadn't shocked anyone that Hermione returned to study. In truth, she didn't know where else she could really go. Not to her parents; she'd spent one hour outside their new terrace house in Sydney's Eastern suburbs to know that they were well and safe and that was good enough. Not to Harry and Ron – she'd had enough of fighting, of danger, and so she had declined the offer to train with them.

Hogwarts was safe, and so that was where she stayed. She'd expected to be more adrift than she was, given that she was so often on her own. But she wasn't; not after Snape.

When her ablutions were finished, she faced Phineas' portrait in her thick pyjamas and a towel wrapped around her hair. Jerking open the curtains, she rapped on the frame and called out his name, then settled on the bed to wait.

It took him a little longer this time, but he strolled into view within half an hour.

"Granger," he greeted her, nodding slightly when she raised her head from where it had been bent over a book.

"Evening, Phineas! Where have you been? Getting up to mischief?"

"Not in the slightest. Just a terribly boring meeting with the Headmistress."

"You have meetings?" Hermione took a sip of tea and grinned when he huffed. "Like, real ones?"

"Where people talk and listen and share insipid ideas and such? Unfortunately, that is the case."

"Oh. My condolences."

"Indeed." Black looked around the room, his beady eyes settling on the rosewood bedside table. "Any word?"

Hermione shook her head sadly. "No… nothing yet. Should I… ah. Probably not."

"What, girl? Should you change your tactics and show him just how enticing the idea of living is, and then in December tell him about the sword, followed by a very vague hint about Godric's Hollow a few days early?"

Hermione blinked then rubbed her eyes, finally saying, "Bloody hell, Headmaster!"

"Language!" he cut in, allowing a quick snort of laughter to escape. "Unless you are meaning your profanities as praise, in which case, do bloody well continue."

"No – well, yes!" She closed the book carefully then jumped off the bed, beginning to pace and brainstorm while her hands waved around in the air, punctuating her points with aplomb. Her hair was wild by now, having dried on its own while she waited for Phineas, and it whipped around her head as she walked and spoke, pausing every now and again to dance on the spot.

Black merely watched the spectacle with one eyebrow raised, wondering if the girl knew just how familiar her pacing was – though to be fair, he'd never quite seen Snape doing a jig while squealing, so perhaps he was wrong.

"My girl," he said loudly, rousing her out of her internal monologue. "Do use your words."

"Oh, of course!" She skipped over to the painting and thrust a finger at his face, ignoring his affronted glare. "I think you're right! I mean, let's think about it. It's a ruddy nightmare for him at the moment, isn't it? The Carrows – those two were horrible, according to Ginny. And then all the stuff with the Malfoys-"

"Expand on 'stuff', Granger," Black instructed dryly. "I am not one of your 'girls' – use that milk fed education of yours."

Temporarily distracted, Hermione growled. "Milk fed? Leave off, Phineas! I work hard for my grades, and I'll have you know that – oh." She grimaced when he covered his ears with a smirk. "Right. Anyway. Well, Draco told Luna once how awful it was… and I _saw_ them when I was… when I was at the um. The…"

"The Manor?" Phineas supplied gently, waving her on when she nodded silently. "Let's skip the Malfoys. Pompous bastards, and Severus always Occluded to handle Lucius at his worst, anyway. It was Narcissa that bothered him… poor woman. He hates to see women helpless. Even worse for him is one _knowing_ they're helpless. But anyway, after that interesting tidbit that might help in the future, I digress."

It was easy to recover and haul her mind away from focusing on the events at the Manor – strangely, after the Battle and everything afterward, it was her time there that haunted her most. It was so _personal;_ she had been singled out, when she had only ever expected to die alongside Harry, not before him, not with her own crazed torturer. Phineas' (rather hypocritically, if one considered how long it took him to brighten up last year) comment about 'pompous bastards' did it, though. He was on her side, and with the absence of her own father, it meant more than the man in the portrait ever suspected.

She raised her chin and ploughed on in a clear voice, eyes shining at Phineas' small smile of approval. "So, yes. Next tactic, get him interested. Then let more proof follow once he's ready for it. We still have time, although not too much… regardless, yes. Let's try it. It's just…" she faltered and sat down on the bed with a sigh.

"Just?"

"Well…" she began, threading fingers through her hair then stopping once they encountered knots, "I mean, we… _I_ left him. At the Shack. After everything, I left him. And it just seems so _unfair_ –"

"Life isn't fair, Miss Granger."

"Oh, ha bloody ha! We all know who taught you that one."

Phineas smirked. "Are you sure? Or was it an illustrious predecessor that taught your Professor such a gem?"

Letting out a hoot of laughter, Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "All right, I'll go along with it. It must have been you that taught Professor Snape that wonderful phrase. Anyway… in his present, I'm writing to him, giving him hints, trying to give him hope. And then my present self just up and leaves when he's bloody dying! Won't he just think it was all for naught when he sees me bugger off without even a word? And when we went back, the body wasn't even there and we just _assumed…_ After he told us almost every lesson to _never_ assume…"

Black sighed and disappeared for a moment, then walked back into the frame with a small glass of wine. After a long sip, he sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, rolling the now empty glass in his hands as if it were a wand. "Granger… the point is that he will _know_ that it's not really you. It's not the you that he's been exchanging letters with. It's the old you. And our desire is to make him want to stay around to see the _new_ you. The new _everything._ It's not time to mention his death yet, but he's alone, my girl. And he has to know that he doesn't have to be."

"And you think that I, the know-it-all, the insufferable chit, will be able to do such a thing?"

Black eyed her thoughtfully and shook his silver hair. "Who knows? I certainly do not even have an inkling about the outcome."

"Then why are you so insistent on helping?" she asked, then watched as he tilted his head to the side, that ambiguous gesture that could indicate so many things.

They looked at each other, his gaze measuring and hers full of patience, for she had grown fond of the stern old man. Finally, he opened his mouth with eyes that smirked instead of his lips that were busy and said, "Don't be solipsistic. It's simple, really. Slytherins take care of their own. And that means Severus… and you, my girl. Good night."

…

His letter came to her early the next morning; almost as if, in his time, he hadn't gone to sleep at all. Or if he had, he'd snapped awake before dawn and somehow had the wits about him to pen a reply.

The letter fell onto her sleeping face and she awoke with a scream and scrambled for her wand, casting a silent spell to open Black's curtains when she heard him come hurtling into the frame with a "Sweet Salazar, girl, _what is it?_ "

Then he noticed the letter and his harried look turned into a calm smile, though Hermione decided that it was more appropriate to class it as a shit-eating grin. "He always was an early riser."

She shot him a glower then sent her shaking hands to work and unfolded the letter. It held the round stain of the bottom of a cup in the corner of it, though she hoped to Merlin that he wasn't up and drinking coffee at – she cast a tempus – four fifty bloody two AM. "Gods," she groaned then sat up with a jolt, a hand over her mouth.

"What!" Black pushed against the canvas, as if he might crawl through it. "Speak!"

"See for yourself," she said breathlessly, and got out of bed. She hissed at the cold floor under her feet and ran on tippy toes to hold it an inch away from the frame.

"Well I never…" he said eventually, and sagged into the chair. His face crumpled, softening the hard lines that reminded her of the author of the note she held.

 _/_

 _Miss Granger,_

 _You have been rather silent; quite uncharacteristic of you._

 _I will hazard a guess that you have many more things you wish to say or in our case, write._

 _Do continue._

 _S._

 _/_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Every time a new review comes in, I get so ridiculously excited. I'm so glad that you're all enjoying the story. This is shorter than it could have been, but the ending comes with a fundamental shift within the strange relationship that this pair have. Plus I didn't want to keep you waiting ;-) The next chapter might be a few days later than usual while I work on the one-shot for the 100th review. I've been given a fabulous concept that I think all of you time travel lovers will enjoy.

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

 _/_

 _Miss Granger,_

 _You have been rather silent; quite uncharacteristic of you._

 _I will hazard a guess that you have many more things you wish to say or in our case, write._

 _Continue._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Professor,_

 _You are correct on both points._

 _Shall we start slowly?_

 _H._

 _/_

 _Miss Granger,_

' _Starting slowly' implies that there is time to do so, does it not?_

 _S._

 _/_

 _Professor,_

 _Indeed. We have time, for now, in the overall grand scheme of things. Do you? Have the time, I mean._

 _H._

 _/_

 _At the moment? No, Miss Granger, I do not. Write what you wish to. When I have the time, and if it is worth my while, I shall respond._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Professor,_

 _All right, then. Let's begin with niceties. I'd ask about you first, but I do not believe you would read the rest of this letter. So, for the sake of sparking your interest though this will probably do the opposite…_

 _Did you know you have an Order of Merlin?_

 _Well, you do. First Class, as a matter of fact. They were planning on introducing an entirely new category just for you, but funnily enough it was Lucius Malfoy that advised them that you wouldn't particularly care. Members of his family supported his belief so convincingly that Kingsley decided to just bow down and issue you with the bog standard._

 _I received one as well – First Class, and I really don't think that our actions were equal in the slightest. Not that anyone asked my opinion._

 _Did you know that they're also doing a rehabilitation program? For the students, mostly. Minerva fought for many of the older Slytherins and as a result, they've been attending a mixture of counselling sessions (don't scowl) and Muggle education classes (don't laugh) instead of having to be involved with the trials. I've developed some very interesting, albeit unexpected, new friendships because of it._

 _School began on the usual day, September first. It was damaged significantly in the war, but many of us stayed at the castle to help with the reconstruction. Your Slytherins included, with the exception of Crabbe and Goyle. I'll tell you about those two someday._

 _The new lot of first years was bigger than any I've seen before. It seems that families have begun to return to Britain from abroad; that being said, there are many faces missing. But the atmosphere is one of hope and determination. I can almost see your familiar glower from here at such blatant positivity, but really – it's a new dawn, so to speak. It's nice._

 _-H._

 _/_

 _Professor –_

 _Are you all right? It's just that I sent my response yesterday morning and now it's evening and I haven't heard from you._

 _H._

 _/_

 _Miss Granger,_

 _Your concern is noted, though unnecessary. I was –_ here there was a splatter of ink, as if he had paused to carefully consider his words – _called away._

 _There are, at present, two rather large elephants in the room/bedside table, no?_

 _S._

 _/_

 _Professor,_

 _Perhaps, but they are watered and well fed._

 _H._

 _/_

 _Miss Granger – are you, a Gryffindor and (if I am to believe you) an Order of Merlin recipient, refusing to tell me of Potter? Is that not the entire point of this ridiculous exercise? That I have more instructions to follow and more people to be accountable to? Have you been taking lessons from Dumbledore's portrait?_

 _S._

 _/_

 _Sir,_

 _I am not refusing; things could change at any time, and I know you well enough to say that you would put yourself in front of His wand if it would save Harry. We all know that. There are things that we face over the next few months that might tempt you to do just that – forgive me, but I can't have you endanger yourself for us when I know we will be fine. Mostly._

 _So, bear with me._

 _You're not accountable to me, and I won't give you instructions – that is, I might tell you things, but you have complete control over whether or not you decide to act on them._

 _I will tell you everything, in time._

 _H._

 _/_

 _Miss Granger,_

 _Do not think that I missed your little 'mostly'._

 _And how do you suppose I will be notified at an appropriate time when correspondence comes through this hideous table?_

 _Could you not have chosen a better intermediary? Surely your skills are still adequate enough to send a letter to my desk?_

 _S._

 _/_

 _Professor,_

 _I charmed the bedside table. It seems that I still have to send letters to you through it, but anything I receive from you comes directly to my person._

 _Would you like the spell I used? You can perform it so my replies come to wherever you are._

 _Unfortunately anything being sent has to go through the drawer… I did think of the desk but at the time I was feeling rather passionate about ensuring that the letter wasn't ignored. I don't think you'll mind to be honest, if you go back and read the original with your new perspective, considering it was about you._

 _And the desk? Don't you think that someone would notice if the drawer opened on its own?_

 _H._

 _/_

 _Ten points for impertinence and cheek, Miss Granger._

 _And yes – out of curiosity, I did check and the points were removed. Interesting._

 _/_

 _That's preposterous! I'm not even a student in your time – right now, I've gone five days without a shower and am living in a tent. But still; how lovely. I've always liked the castle._

 _And fine._

 _Do your own bloody spell._

 _/_

 _Five for language._

 _/_

…

 _/_

 _Professor,_

 _I hope you have understood my absence of two days to mean that I shall not suffer your rudeness any more than I have to._

 _Believe it or not, I have enjoyed our correspondence thus far. Think of that what you will. And I would like to continue – without the threat of house points going missing!_

 _H._

 _P.S. I was checking my diary and reading what I had written last year; did you know that yesterday in your time, I somehow managed to remember a spell that created a warm shower from just a small amount of water? Curious indeed, don't you think? Especially when I consider my offhand comment in my last letter._

 _/_

 _You are the child here, Miss Granger, and you are acting like one._

 _I have waited patiently for answers and information. If you do not reply within the hour, consider our arrangement cancelled._

 _P.S. I do not, of course, have the slightest idea of what you are talking about._

 _/_

 _Snape – we have no arrangement! Regardless…_

 _The Ministry is now led by Kingsley. He has almost completely overhauled the various Departments and the Wizengamot is in the process of being purged. I had thought the task impossible, but new strides are being made each day._

 _Of course, there has been no attention paid to the crucial naming of the Dept for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures._

 _I have sent numerous letters to petition a change – each and every one has been ignored!_

 _H._

 _/_

 _Back to the point at hand, Miss Granger._

 _The Ministry…?_

 _S._

 _/_

 _Would you call me Hermione, please? Seeing Miss Granger all the time is becoming tiresome._

 _/_

 _Once again, may I remind you of the_ _Ministry._

 _And consider this advance notice that any reply from me will be delayed for a day or so. Upon my return, I expect to see a full and comprehensive report on the current political climate. Try and restrict it to less than a foot. You are still a bleeding heart, yes? Think of the trees, then, and do not waste resources with incessant commentary._

 _S._

 _P.S. – your subtlety is as loud as a stampeding Hippogriff. I can read between the lines well enough, but you lack the art of conversation to answer my question without me having to shout it from the Astronomy Tower, so let loose with your inner Gryffindor for the moment – perish the thought – and tell me of the Malfoys._

 _/_

 _Professor,_

 _I don't have time to write a report! I'm taking my NEWTs in a matter of months, you know._

 _I will say this: your old comrades are either dead, being jailed, or being rehabilitated (depending on crimes committed). Some have disappeared – the Aurors are of the opinion that they are in hiding overseas. There has been a task force established to investigate their whereabouts. Perhaps that is something you may wish to offer your consultancy services on, in your future._

 _I shall be presumptuous as to what you would wish to read about and say that Draco is well enough; as well as can be expected, anyway. You would know better than most of how he was treated during the war, but he is a better man for it. Scoff all you like at the philosophical comment, Professor – I count him as a friend these days._

 _Draco tells me that his mother is having difficulty with coming to terms with the ending of the war… Lucius' trial is still ongoing, and she is often called in to the Ministry herself. I met her once a few weeks ago… she is quieter now, though no less determined to keep her family functioning. She could use a friend._

 _And – you mentioned two elephants in the room. The first is Harry, obviously. What is the second?_

 _H._

 _/_

 _I would have thought that was obvious._

 _You have neglected to tell me how_ _you_ _fare._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Hermione – three days and no response? A record for you._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Dear Professor,_

 _My apologies. I went to London over the weekend and didn't have access to the drawer to reply properly._

 _I am fine, but you are more important._

 _How are_ _you?_ _October was … a difficult month, from my understanding._

 _H._

 _/_

 _Writing Hermione when you are addressing me as Professor is ridiculous. Address the imbalance with your next letter._

 _The end of October draws near and your understanding is correct._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Severus,_

 _That was a Slytherin answer that is not as clear as I had hoped for._

 _H._

 _/_

 _Hermione,_

 _I am in hell._

 _Is that an adequate answer? Or do you require more adjectives?_

 _/_

 _Hermione,_

 _What the bloody hell is this?_

 _Answer promptly. I shall be called away this evening._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Severus,_

 _It worked! It worked, it worked!_

 _Fantastic!_

 _I think you know what it is, but anyway – it's a discman. Mine, in fact – I didn't have time to get you one of the new ones. Sorry. It's a bit worse for wear, but anyway. It's one that uses batteries instead of a charger so it will work in Hogwarts – it's got a fresh set in now and I'll send you new batteries each week. The CDs are a mix of my taste and my dad's collection. I haven't forgotten your penchant for Cat Stevens so I chose accordingly._

 _Yes… Halloween. Hence this small gift that will not compare to what you will no doubt have to endure on this night with Riddle._

 _I'm sorry, Severus._

 _If I could change anything at all, it would be all of this._

 _Hermione._

 _/_

…

Severus ignored the stench of blood on his clothes. For once, it was not his, not that that was comforting in the slightest. Lucius had bore the brunt of the Halloween cruelties – unsurprising, but it was still difficult to watch knowing that Draco had been forced to stand beside Bellatrix as she cast each spell. And Narcissa… the woman that Severus had innocently mooned over for years during school… she was somewhere in the Manor, knowing that her husband was being tortured to within an inch of his life.

Severus could never generally spare any sympathy for the Malfoy patriarch; he was a prick most of the time, yet it was increasingly clear that Lucius was tired of all of the games. He had always prided his family above all else and while in the past that had meant a vehement support of Riddle, it now became a desperate hope that simmered pityingly within the man's eyes; hope that his wife and son would be safe, even if he was not.

And so it was that Severus had gathered the man in his arms that night and Apparated him to Hogwarts to treat him with his own extensive personal stores. Riddle hadn't even cared, so long as the harm had been done. He'd returned him limp and sleeping to Narcissa and turned his face on her tears, though not before pausing to draw Draco into a fierce embrace.

Fuck Riddle, fuck Bellatrix, fuck the whole sodding war.

He was eager for his reprieve.

The minute he walked in the door of his office, he shoved his bloodied old cloak into the fire and let it burn, then discarded every single piece of clothing on his body. He placed each item into the magical hamper just outside the bathroom door and watched with undisguised weariness as the pile disappeared.

Clutching the gift from Hermione like it was a lifeline, Severus stared at it and shook his head. She'd sent him a discman. Like he was some fucking teenager on the High Street in a too-big tracksuit.

It was one of the best things anyone could have ever done for him.

Especially on Halloween.

Severus' personal record for this night usually went in the way of a patrol in the corridors followed by drinking enough alcohol to put his body to sleep. October 31st was no friend to him; not that he deserved anything better.

But here… here it was: a circular, heavy object with headphones plugged into it. There was already a disc inside, something plain and white without any names. Curious, he gathered the small box filled with CDs, intent on rifling through them later, and laid his tired limbs down on the bed. He touched the play button, and waited.

Then promptly closed his eyes as the sweet voice of Hermione Granger washed over him like gentle waves on the shore.

She coughed and cleared her throat, then said in a low voice that made him snort with laughter, "Testing, testing. One two three. Is this working? Oh. Shite. Is it? It is! Sorry, Professor. Working out dad's equipment was rather difficult, you see, but erm… right.

"If you can hear me… oh bloody hell Hermione, of course he can. Oh. Sorry – I've never used this before, no doubt I'll make more mistakes as we go along. Anyway.

"Here we are, on Halloween. Well, it's not Halloween for me yet – I'm at home recording this. But when you listen to it, it'll be Halloween and I would've said things like this anyway. So here we are, on Halloween. God, I sound like a right idiot."

There was a fumbling sound, followed by the crackling of paper as if she'd composed a speech. Severus pressed the 'pause' button, then set it to play from the beginning again, just to catch the moment when her voice had gone high and flustered when she'd realised it was working. He could almost picture her pink, flushed cheeks and awkward smile. It was not … unpleasant.

As he listened, he found that her voice was not the high, grating tone of her school years. Rather it was smooth and rich, deeper than before, hinting that Hermione had changed far more than he'd assumed. Had it happened during her time on the run or after?

One thing was clear: it was a woman's voice. It didn't seem like there was any girl left in her at all. Severus didn't quite know what to think about that, apart from understanding that he enjoyed it.

"I won't ask what He made you do tonight. No doubt it was awful. I am sorry, you know… for everything. I don't pity you, because you're strong enough to withstand anything in my opinion. Did you know that I used to think of you as a rock? Stop laughing," – he stopped and let out a guilty chuckle – "it's true. A piece of granite, to be precise. I still think of you like that sometimes…not hard and emotionless and blank, but raw and powerful and of the earth. It makes me wish that I had the chance to know you better. I think we would have gotten on well – once we'd both gotten past the urge to hex arses and bollocks off, anyway. You know," she paused and cleared her throat again, and when she continued it was as if she was trying not to sound emotionally affected by whatever she was thinking about, "I haven't seen you for a long time. And I would actually like to be your friend, if you'll have me.

"If you've listened this far and not burned this disc, then I'd like it if you told me. I can do this again, if you'd like… not all the time, of course. Even I am getting sick of my voice now so you probably are too. But, if you want, I'll do it.

"It would have been more appropriate to send you something that would have given you information. But this was the first thing that came into my mind. I just thought … well, I just thought how lovely it would be to have a conversation. This is as close as I can get and I'm terribly sorry for making you listen to my drivel for the last ten minutes! I'll stop now.

"Oh, hang on – no. I did want to mention that you will get three visitors in November, searching for that pesky thing hidden behind Dumbledore's portrait. Say hello for me, would you? Or better yet don't. Sorry. What a silly thing to say. What I should have said is that Hagrid's rock cakes are always extra awful this time of year.

"I'm sure you're thinking that I should be committed. To that I say: you too, you grump. Shite I just called you a grump! Jesus. Sorry again. I'm going to say goodbye before I make more of a fool of myself.

"Good night, Severus. I hope that your dreams are kind to you. I'm waiting for your reply."

He stared at the discman for a long time. His thoughts were running rampant, but the only one he could successfully pin down was that the sound of her voice saying his name as if she thought each damn syllable was important was enough to make his throat uncomfortably thick. He quickly Summoned a sheet of paper and wrote down her clue about the visitors with the red biro that was now a permanent fixture on his bedside table, then settled back onto the pillows.

Drawing the blankets around his body, he pulled the headphones on again and pressed play. There was no telling how many times he pressed that tiny button that night, for Severus fell asleep to the sound of Hermione Granger's voice and when he dreamt, he dreamt of waves on the shore.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** _I would say sorry for the slight delay, but there is one short story, one one-shot (Accidents and Coincidences, if you'd like a squiz) and one set of drabbles that are now there for your perusal and I have it on good authority that you lot – minxes, every single one of you – have been enjoying them ;-) As for this chapter… Phineas… what are you up to? The next is a big one, so this is mostly a stepping stone to that. Not much interaction, but there's a stack in the next chapter to make up for it._

 _Oh and please excuse my late review replies for the last chapter! I shall do so this arvo, as they were all bloody fantastic! Thank you all._

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

One month later, Hermione entered the Great Hall and eased her heavy book bag onto the other shoulder before making her way to the very end of the Gryffindor table. Ginny was already there, beckoning her eagerly, and Luna was just sliding in to join them for dinner.

"Studying again?" Ginny smiled as Hermione sat down with an exhausted huff.

"There's just so much to _cover,_ " she replied, pursing her lips. "Honestly, there was never any chance that I wouldn't return but there's only so many times that Slughorn can dawdle off and leave us to flail around. So it takes ten times longer to finish a potion because everyone needs help and-"

"And you can't just tell them to, oh I don't know, sod off?" Ginny elbowed her in the side. "You need time for yourself, too! Give me their names, I'll flood the Hall with howlers by breakfast tomorrow morning."

"God, I wish! It'll be fine in the end, though."

Ginny raised her eyebrows and shared an amused look with Luna before she said, "When did you start being an optimist? Usually you're in a tizz right before the holidays, trying to get everything organised before the break."

Hermione shrugged and speared a carrot. "Life's too short." It really was. She was past defending her study habits to others, for one, and Ginny and Luna had been to hell and back both with her and on their own. They understood; there was no need to mince words.

"True," Luna mused. "I must say, this is nice, us sitting together. I've been getting a bit tired of the Ravenclaw table. All they've been doing for the last few weeks is _analysing_ everything. Not that that's different to normal but I'm a bit tired of it _._ "

"Analysis?" Ginny echoed. "Merlin, what could possibly be analysed at this hour? Dinner?"

"No, no," Luna tilted her head and frowned. "It's all about the teachers these days. You know, who they like, who they don't, who they miss-"

"Who do they miss?" Hermione interrupted eagerly after swallowing a bite of lamb. Truth be told, one could often count on Ravenclaws to speak positively of Professor Snape; they had looked past his acerbic tongue and revelled in the chance to study with a Master that excelled in his field and still had his wits about him. Slughorn, however good he may be, had a few sheep missing from the top paddock.

"I think you know," Luna answered with a smile. "We all miss him, don't we?"

"Who? Snape?" Ginny grimaced. "I don't miss him. Not as a teacher, anyway. I know he had more talent and knowledge than half of the teachers up at the table right now" -in unison, all three heads turned to see Trelawney blinking owlishly at the ceiling- "but it was… I don't know. He had a comforting presence."

"What?" Hermione could scarcely believe what she was hearing. It was rare for Ginny to ever speak of her time at Hogwarts while Snape was Headmaster, though she knew enough to understand that it was because of damaging memories rather than general reluctance.

"I know. Obviously at the time I didn't really _get_ what was going on, but now that I do, there are a few things that make it so blindingly clear that I'm embarrassed I didn't figure it out."

"Like what?" Hermione leaned forward, her dinner forgotten, missing the intrigued expression on Luna's face as she noted the instant reaction.

"Well…" Ginny rubbed her forehead and looked down at her plate. "You know there were some… episodes with the Carrows."

Her two friends nodded, both having witnessed the ferocity with which certain Death Eaters played with their prey. Hermione had been on the run at the time, but she felt she had enough in her personal experience to empathise. That in itself was what had brought the three young women together; all had grown up far quicker over the last few years than they might have under other circumstances, and it was a relief to not have to pretend anymore.

"Anyway, Snape was just… _there._ It's hard to explain. One night the sister – she was always the worst, such a twisted bitch! – found me getting food to take to everyone in the Room of Requirement. I'd concentrated so hard on getting all of the right things to eat that I'd forgotten to disillusion myself. She found all the food, emptied it onto the floor in front of my face and then told me to lick it all off of the floor. And when I told her to get stuffed, her brother came and said that if I didn't give him a good show while cleaning it up, he'd make sure he would make me remember how to _obey_ an order."

"Oh god Ginny!" Hermione winced and stretched her arm out to squeeze her friend's shoulder. "I'm so sorry. How awful!"

"It could've been worse, though," she replied.

"Much worse," Luna chimed in softly. "And Professor Snape saved you, didn't he?"

"I didn't know it at the time, but he did… he arrived straight after the brother's little speech. I thought he was so angry at me – I just assumed he was going to make it so much worse. You know that look in his eyes…" Ginny swallowed. "But he said something to the Carrows, I couldn't hear it, and they just walked off. They looked bloody livid, though. Then he took off his own cloak and gave it to me, and disillusioned me himself. He didn't say a word, except 'Molly Weasley's daughter cleaning the floor – how appropriate'. He made it sound so _dirty,_ and it just made me more frustrated, but I get it now… he was just finding his own way of expressing how shit it all was. He took me back to the kitchens, found me a house-elf and said that if I was determined to feed myself until I looked like Hagrid, then at least do it under sanitary conditions."

Hermione sighed and returned to her meal, mulling it all over. She almost wished that stories like Ginny's could be made public (not that she would ever really act on such an inappropriate desire), just so anyone who harboured doubts could see how wrong they were. Sure, Snape was a snarky man, cantankerous, brutally honest – yet that didn't mean he should have been pigeon holed as the 'bad' git, the 'dark' wizard. Bugger that.

Of course, her more direct friend chose that moment to turn their conversation on its head.

"Well," Luna said thoughtfully, toying with her food, "I think he has a rather nice bottom."

Hermione promptly spat out the mouthful of juice she'd been aimlessly swishing around with her tongue, then spluttered out a, "What?!"

The surprise of all surprises was Ginny's emphatic nod followed by, "Ohh-er! Mmm. Yes, I'll agree with that."

Flummoxed, she looked around at her friends. " _How_ do you know what his _bottom_ looks like?" _And I'm jealous,_ she added silently. Merlin, Circe and Phineas (now that had been an interesting conversation, involving a 'Do you?' and a 'Yes, don't you dare say a word!' followed by a 'Godric's bollocks girl, I always knew you would find some good taste somewhere along the line.') knew that she fancied the pants off of the man – how could she have missed such an opportunity?

Ginny and Luna locked eyes and smirked. "Well, we had a shared extra brewing session once, to make up for a few mistakes in something we'd both botched the week before…" the redhead began.

"No!"

"Yes. No idea how we managed to get in the same room – we don't have Potions together. But it was just Luna and I. Anyway, the dungeons were all stuffy and hot and he wasn't even really _around,_ just billowing in and out every now and then from that private lab he had in the other room, you know what he was like."

"Go on…"

"He must've needed an ingredient or something because he stormed in at one point sans frock coat, just a dress shirt and trousers."

"Ooohhh…."

"Indeed," Luna confirmed. "And it was quite warm that day."

"Well, er, yes, but… more?"

Ginny snorted and took up the flag again. "The shirt was tucked in, obviously! And, you know… we might have ogled a bit…"

Hours later, Hermione returned to her room in the lightest mood she'd been in for weeks. It was only when she was lying in bed after her nightly chat with Phineas that she realised that Luna said Snape _has_ a nice bottom, not _had._

Curious.

…

Severus – for when she was alone, Hermione liked to think of him as Severus – hadn't replied to her silly little recording for a week. And when he had, it was so brisk and perfunctory that she knew that she'd made the wrong decision.

But that didn't stop her from keeping up the warmth that had spread into her letters. If he was uncomfortable with the small shred of intimacy involved in their communication thus far, then that was his problem. There was a sense of freedom when conversing with such a man, especially when his face (and by extension, his reaction) couldn't be seen and she found that she rather liked it. Plus, he wasn't her teacher.

The difficult thing was that, if she was to be completely honest, Hermione was in danger of falling very hard for Severus. Yes, she admired him and found him attractive (and took some perverse, possessive joy that not many others did) yet those feelings had never eventuated to anything other than simply enjoying the man. It wasn't as if, as his student, she ever would have acted on them. And he wouldn't have wanted her to – she was completely sure of that.

But now? It couldn't be denied that there was beginning to be a thaw in the polite tones of their letters. She thought back to the letter he'd sent in response to her recording, after having her in a nervous tizz for almost seven days:

' _Hermione,_

 _Need I remind you about your recent promise?_

 _Severus.'_

She'd giggled like a girl of thirteen instead of nineteen, and had immediately placed a new packet of batteries into the drawer. He hadn't mentioned anything about her little speech, but it hadn't stopped her from pretending that he'd listened to it more than the CDs she'd picked out. Cat Stevens was there, of course, and some other ones of her dad's – Paul Kelly, Led Zeppelin and Crowded House. Hermione had added in a few of hers, unsure of what he would like so aimed for variety and selected a Robert Plant and Jimmy Page collaboration, Chris Isaak, some Chopin and Bach, Oasis and Peter Gabriel. He'd returned the Oasis a few days afterwards, making her chuckle and put it aside, but all of the rest were kept.

The waters were all very murky, really. She was well aware of the memories and that he'd once loved Harry's mother. If love was what it actually was… truthfully, Hermione rather thought that Lily had a lot to answer for but she wasn't about to go and broadcast such a thing. Besides, if Severus knew that she had had access to his most important memories, then he might just decide to never speak to her again.

It wasn't something that she was willing to risk. Phineas himself had agreed that any talk over his memories would only be undertaken if both Hermione and Severus were actually dead, and therefore able to simply go at each other without fear of mortal wounds.

Fair enough. It wasn't as though there was ever going to be a time when such revelations were needed. If his absence in her current time was any indication, then if she was successful in helping him survive, he wasn't at all interested in staying in touch. The idea was upsetting… more so than perhaps it should be. It was likely that Severus still saw her as a young girl, though her desire that he see her as a friend, a confidant, seemed to be bearing fruit. A friend was better than nothing.

Hermione glowered into her morning coffee, and shook her head to clear her mind. It was with relief that she saw that Luna was heading towards her – Ginny hadn't even woken yet and there was only a smattering of students in the Hall at such an early hour. Generally Hermione needed to finish at least one entire cup of caffeine before being even remotely approachable, but she had a bone to pick with Luna Lovegood, and she wasn't going to wait.

"Luna!" she smiled widely as her friend sat down. Luna arched one neat eyebrow at her enthusiasm, then promptly doctored a cup of white, sweet tea.

"Good morning, Hermione. It looks as if it'll be a lovely day. Cold, though. Just the right weather for-"

"Luna?"

"Hmm?"

She bit her lip, and then decided to just go the whole hog. "Luna, what did you mean by Professor Snape _has_ a nice bottom?"

Luna stared at her curiously. "Isn't that rather obvious?"

Waving her hand impatiently, Hermione shook her head again. "No but, why did you say _has_ and not _had_?"

"Oh." Luna bit into a cheese pastry, her tone light and cheerful. "Well, he's alive, of course."

" _What!" Good lord!_

Luna gave an elegant shrug. "I believe so, anyway. I certainly don't think the snake was successful. That man is indestructible."

"Oh…" Hermione's stomach sank. She'd imagined confirmed sightings, clandestine meetings. She'd even managed to trick her mind into believing that she wouldn't _really_ be upset if Severus had corresponded with Luna, of all people, and not her. She was rather embarrassed to admit that there was a part of her that was glad that he wasn't. But then…

"Why do you think that? I mean, there's a headstone near the monument…"

"Everyone's got it all wrong, don't they? And who would listen to me?"

"You have a point, I guess."

"Yes, exactly. And I only have my own eyes that can confirm what I saw, and it seemed that he didn't want to disturbed, so I'm not about to go and –"

"Hang on." Hermione's eyes were fit to bust. "Did you just say-"

"I did," Luna cut her off, gesturing for her to keep her voice down. "I saw him once, you know."

"When? Where?" Her left leg was bouncing up and down, restless in the way Harry's always had been.

"Well, I was just walking down the street and there was a man in front of me. Tall, pale, black hair down to his shoulders. It was tied back, though. And he was in Muggle clothes."

"Muggle clothes?" Hermione said faintly, trying to picture the Professor in tied back hair and jeans. It seemed impossible, though to be fair it had taken her until third year to actually realise that teachers did have a life outside of school.

"Mmm. Yes. He suits them. Anyway he didn't look back at me, but… I'm sure it was him. His walk, you know?"

"Oh…" Yes. Anyone worth their salt knew just how Severus walked. With purpose and direction and-

"It was aimless, like he was just… _enjoying_ it."

"Oh." She didn't seem to be capable of saying anything else.

"Anyway, he just walked along, though at one point he cocked his head to the side, almost like he was showing me that he knew I was there but didn't particularly mind."

"And how long ago was this?"

Luna counted silently on her fingers. "A few months ago. Just before we returned to the school."

"What?! In August? You saw Professor Snape in August? And you haven't said anything?"

"You're being obtuse, Hermione," Luna said gently. "If he wanted anything to be said, he would be out in the open now. It wasn't my place. And if you think anyone would believe _me,_ then you have a few screws loose."

"Yes, but…" she set her cutlery down and frowned, connecting the half hidden clues. "You say Muggle clothes. _Where_ were you, Luna?"

"Don't you remember? I told you." Luna finished off her slice of toast and stood up, drawing her books to her chest. "Daddy and I went on our yearly trip to find the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. They're supposed to be native to Sweden, but we haven't had much luck there, so we've been going everywhere, really. We were in a village in Borneo, checking if the fires meant that there might have been fresh clues. No such luck, I'm afraid."

"Of course…" Hermione whispered, mind running rampant. "Yes. Well… right…"

…

' _Borneo? What do you want to know about Borneo for? Planning a trip? It'd be a waste – huge fires started up a month or so ago all over the place, haven't been put out yet. It used to be known for its plethora of rare ingredients, all under the one roof so to speak. I haven't been for years but no doubt many of the plants would have been burnt._

 _S.'_

Hermione stared at Severus' reply then let it fall to the bed, not even bothering to disguise her scowl.

"What's with the face?" Phineas called from the portrait as he sat down on the ornate chair. "You look like someone's killed your cat."

"Ha bloody ha. That's not funny at all! You know Crooks is a sore point."

Black sniffed and looked around the room. "Still haven't worked out a way to get him back from Australia?"

"No," she grumbled. "I won't take him unless I can fix the memory damage on mum and dad. They should have _something_ from me, even if they don't remember."

"And you haven't made much progress since last weekend?"

"Nothing to write home about, at least. I did read one interesting book…" she went on and explained the chapter of the large tome that Neville had lent her last week; it was always sad to think on why her friend had such a variety of books on the same subject but she was glad that he chose to share them with her. This particular book had covered various potions that could be trialled, although they were all for what was described as short term memory loss. There was nothing for spells gone wrong that had completely erased every single memory of a child born of the victim's blood and body.

Phineas had always taken an interest in her research, and he had proved himself to be a fantastic sounding board for her ideas and theories. Hermione wasn't even really sure _why_ the man had taken such an interest, but she wasn't about to discourage him.

"And Severus? Any news on that front?"

She smiled and shook her head. "You know, it's funny – if he survived, _you_ might actually _know."_

At once his brow furrowed and he took a sip of the wine glass that had been painted in. "What makes you say such a thing?"

"Oh, well, Luna said the most farfetched thing… she mentioned she thinks she saw him in Borneo, of all places. Some jungle village. And in August, no less! And I wrote to him, just to get his general opinion on a place almost at the end of the world, and he just said he hadn't been for years and it didn't seem as if he had any interest in the place at all. Then I was thinking, it'd be so wonderful to just know whether he survived the Shack. That's all I want to know!"

"And you think I might know?" Phineas rolled his eyes. "You think that a man on the brink of death would patch himself up, then toddle over to the Headmaster's Office when he risked being killed on the spot, just to update _me_?"

Hermione threw herself down on the bed and glowered at the ceiling. "When you put it that way…"

"Yes. We won't mention your declining faculties that resulted in you asking such a question."

"You're always so kind to me, Phineas," she drawled, rolling over to stare at the bedside table. "Should I reply, do you think?"

Black snorted and held up his hands. "Let me see… should you reply or not… you wish to save the man, and he's given you an indication that he's near the table and able to sit down long enough to pen a response. Yes… it's a conundrum."

…

 _Severus,_

 _No, just curious._

 _How are you faring? I was speaking with Ginny earlier… she mentioned how glad she was for all of your assistance during the year. I'm not going to elaborate on paper, but I assume you know what I'm referring to…_

 _H._

 _/_

 _I do, Hermione. And… thank you. For telling me, that is._

 _I am as I always am. Albus has been reminding me about the sword – as if I could forget from your rambling combined with his nattering, plus the attempt of your delightful little friends to steal it. I have pencilled in the date you received it._

 _Christmas approaches, and I must admit that I am curious as to the other event that your letters have hinted at._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Ah… Christmas. Well that was just one big period where the shit hit the fan, if you'll pardon my language. Might I suggest beginning to make sure you have an adequate supply of potions to counteract Nagini's venom? She takes a shot at Harry on Christmas Eve via Bathilda Bagshot's body (no idea how the snake got in there, so don't even think about going to investigate yourself), and we make it through relatively well but it might prove useful to keep such things on your person. It was in Godric's Hollow – I know, I know, we shouldn't have been there, but everything was just piling up. I told you that Ron left us, and, well, it was pretty bloody difficult to deal with that and all of the other wonderful things that come with living with another person twenty four seven in a tiny tent and not being able to talk to anyone about it._

 _I'm going to cross your boundary line here, no doubt about it, but I want you to make sure you have those potions on you. You see, I can tell you everything that happens to us, but I have no idea what happens to_ _you_ _during those days. And it doesn't take a Death Eater to know that Riddle would have been extremely angry at the failure. So I'm writing blind now, but I want you to try and stay safe. And… please tell me as soon as you come back._

 _H._

 _/_

 _Bloody hell. Yes, I have some potions that may prove useful… Black mentioned your whereabouts earlier today, I shall ensure that your supply is more than adequate._

 _Were you hurt?_

 _S._

 _/_

 _By the snake? I wasn't bitten, no._

 _That was you! I thought I had had the good sense to bring doubles of everything, but it was you, wasn't it? You somehow got the extra vials into my bag. How did you do that?_

… _I thought my wards were quite good. I am rather miffed. Thankful, of course, but miffed._

 _I checked my diary, by the way… it turns out I ended up using quite a few of what you gave us. So thank you, Severus. Thank you very much._

 _Hermione._

 _/_

 _Your wards were good enough… They deemed that I was not a threat. I took the liberty of adding to them, though._

 _Hermione, I must ask – did you give me access to your wards each time you established them?_

 _S._

 _/_

 _And if I did?_

 _H._

 _/_

 _Then I would chastise you for your foolishness. At the same time, I find that the idea is not… unpleasant._

 _Regardless; there is never any way of knowing just how Riddle will react to bad news on any given day, but I am sure that what you describe is bound to make him quite incensed. I do not have the time to use it for brewing, though your concern is noted._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Hermione – did you spend the last fortnight brewing all of these?_

 _Do not waste your time in such a manner again._

 _S._

 _/_

 _Severus, give over, would you? I had the time, ergo I brewed. Keep them with you. Thank you Hermione, oh, it was no problem at all Severus._

 _And really, unless I am able to help you, then all I am doing is transmitting information like a newsreader. Forewarning is all well and good, but I will do what I can for you as well. Get used to it._

 _/_

 _Your incessant chatter is unnecessary._

 _Less than two weeks to go until Christmas Eve. I do not expect I will have much time to converse between now and then. I must prepare for the break, and it is likely I will be called on many times during it._

 _Nevertheless, though it pains me to no end to write such a thing, may your Christmas in 1998 be… enjoyable._

 _Severus._

 _/_


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** _More diversions from canon ahead… Let's hit the accelerator, shall we?_

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

He was dead.

He had to be. That was the only plausible explanation, wasn't it? For the letters, the honesty of her words, the heartfelt voice recording.

Severus sat in the middle of his bed, surrounded by her letters. He'd burned any that contained important information, but now, as he surveyed the mountain of notes, he realised that most of what they had written had just been… conversations. They had begun to write just before the beginning of the new school year in September, and if he didn't count the weeks where one or both of them had given the other the cold shoulder (and they didn't count, not really, considering he'd been thinking about it all even if he hadn't been writing), then they had been maintaining this strange… _relationship_ (of sorts) for almost four entire months.

There were at least ten where the only thing she had written was: _'How are you, Severus? How was your day?'_

And there was just about an equal amount that he knew Hermione would have that said: _'Must you always ask? It is not particularly enjoyable to recount things that I do not wish to revisit.'_

She had always responded to each one differently; like she knew just what he wanted - nay, needed to read. He picked up a random letter and snorted, though he discarded it like it was aflame when he noticed that strange warmth in his chest that had taken up residence within him whenever she happened to send something that struck a chord.

' _Severus,_

 _Have I mentioned how glad I am that we have come to use our first names? Because I think Professor Snape would scoff to see the following. But I have a feeling that Severus will understand._

 _There is a delicate time between sleep and waking; or at least it seems that way to me. Going by the times that some of your letters arrive to me, for you I assume it to be just before dawn. I have taken to prefer sleeping over socialising, and so I awake to this place a little later._

 _In this time, the time before I open my eyes, I feel the familiar sheets of Hogwarts on the bed, the warmth of the blankets, and everything seems right and whole. Like nothing ever happened._

 _And then I open my eyes, and I remember._

 _I am tired of remembering._

 _H.'_

He'd charmed the bedside table, just as she had, and her letter had arrived during dinner in the Great Hall. He had been halfway through mindlessly pushing vegetables around his plate when the familiar, light weight of folded parchment slid into his pocket. Rushing back to his chambers, Severus had devoured it eagerly, almost missing the signs that Hermione was even more different than he'd thought. Had she told anyone? Anyone other than him?

It should have disturbed him that he was the only person in the world to know just how _sad_ Hermione Granger had become. But it did the opposite. Now more than ever, he felt a sense of kinship with the young woman. A very dangerous thing.

He'd replied without thinking. The words had come to mind instantly.

' _Hermione,_

 _I measure every Grief I meet_

 _With narrow, probing, Eyes-_

 _I wonder if It weighs like Mine-_

 _Or has an Easier size._

 _And though I may not guess the kind-_

 _Correctly-yet to me_

 _A piercing Comfort it affords_

 _In passing Cavalry-_

 _To note the fashions-of the Cross-_

 _And how they're mostly worn-_

 _Still fascinated to presume_

 _That Some-are like My Own._

 _S.'_

 _/_

 _Severus…_

 _Thank you. And not just for the Dickinson._

 _Hermione._

 _/_

 _Yes, well. Burn the evidence of my poetic heart, if you please._

 _Wake up, Hermione._

 _We may sleep when we are dead._

 _S._

 _/_

His rudeness never seemed to bother her; it was almost as if she had discovered what others hadn't – that he wasn't meaning to be rude, not really. Blunt honesty was often perceived as just one more reason that he was a bastard and over the years, he'd found that he didn't care if the majority of people lacked the intelligence to understand plain speech versus a silver (or even honeyed) tongue.

Sifting through the CDs, he selected one of Hermione's favourites judging by the worn case. Soon he was lying on the bed with the headphones in his ears, using the music as a soundtrack to mulling over his mortality.

Death. He swallowed and blew out a breath.

Was it a surprise? Not really. His time had been coming for years; it often felt as if he'd been born with a noose around his neck.

Before killing Dumbledore, he wasn't completely sure that death would call him during this war. But after casting the curse that ended the life of the wizard that Severus so often despised yet had still managed to force unbreakable loyalty from him, he knew that it would be over soon. In fact, he could look around the bedroom right now and find just a handful of things that were actually his. Even most of his books were in Spinner's End, and he'd certainly not brought any of his music collection in. In the weeks before casting the Avada, Severus had gone through his quarters and boxed up everything of value. It was all in his childhood home. Quite apt, really, now that he knew that he wouldn't even be alive to get rid of it all before the old townhouse would inevitably be destroyed by enemies from either side.

And if Hermione didn't want to be the one to say that he was not around in her time, then he was not going to force her to do so. He could read between the lines, anyway. Death or something else had taken him away… and he was inclined to believe that he was a better man than simply ignoring the woman who was providing him with much needed succour. And she was; he'd tucked her words behind his shields, but when he was patrolling the corridors or taking those long, lonely walks back to the school after meeting with Riddle, he remembered. It had become a ritual for Severus; he preferred to use his new privileges as Headmaster and Apparate directly into his office, but when he found the time, he would walk from the grounds to the castle, thinking about the letters.

He remembered every word.

And he knew that death was waiting for him.

But his mind was a treacherous thing. The fiend plotted late at night, in his dreams that had begun to change from a faceless, comforting woman, to this new Hermione with eyes that had seen too much. In the world of his dreams, Severus would come upon her near the Lake, staring listlessly out, unseeing. Until she turned, hair whipping around her face in the wind. She would see him and stretch her hands out with a beaming smile, beckoning him forward, offering absolution.

In his dreams, her eyes became full of life. For him.

And just like she'd written, he would stir and before opening his eyes, he would allow himself to wonder… Was it inevitable?

Could he not just… change the outcome? He didn't even _want_ to die; he'd do it if he had to, but the very idea left a sour taste in his mouth.

It had taken many days before he even thought to voice his musings aloud.

"Of course you can change it, boy. What's the point of all of this if you can't?"

"Perhaps it is just the last hurrah; dangling hope in a twisted joke."

Black stared at him from his portrait in Severus' sitting room, the only frame that was on the walls of his private chambers. It almost looked like the old Headmaster was rolling his eyes, though Severus couldn't quite figure out where on earth that habit had come from.

"You're getting soft in your old age, Severus," Phineas said quietly (another new habit; the man's tone had previously stayed within two ranges: scathing and bored). "You'd be a poor Slytherin if you weren't suspicious, but there's a line between being suicidal and self-preserving, don't you think?"

Severus groaned at the 's' word – he wasn't bloody suicidal. He was toeing the party line; ready to give his life up for the 'Greater Good'. Though it seemed redundant when he couldn't even look the creator of the term in the eye. If Albus wasn't sleeping or nattering in his ear, Severus didn't even bother to turn around to check on the old goat.

"Don't look at me like that, boy. You've got your chance, and you've got a resource that will tell you how to tread lightly. And that resource seems to be mighty keen on keeping you alive. If you don't plan on doing something about your newfound knowledge, then you're doing a great disservice to the House you were Sorted into."

Scoffing, Severus shrugged. "Why change it? Obviously it is my _fate_ to die."

"Merlin, you're such a bore when you follow the rules," Black drawled. "I was so sure that you had more intelligence than a first year. Has this entire exercise taught you _nothing?_ If Fate is involved, then have you stopped to think on just _why_ you have been blessed with a partner in this entire endeavour who knows just the way to ensure not only your safety, but also that the outcome of the rest of the war does not change? But if you're happy to follow both of the tyrants that hold your leash and give in, well… You'll have to tell her yourself. Which you'll able to do soon… they're in the Forest of Dean, you know."

Phineas knew just how to push his buttons; it helped that the former Headmaster hated Albus and Riddle almost as much as his current successor did. Severus leaned forward and cocked an eyebrow, smirking at Black's expression that was feigning nonchalance. "If I didn't know better, Phineas, I'd think you had a _vested interest_ in keeping me alive."

"There could be worse things."

"Indeed." Severus sighed and looked at the door to his office. Christmas Eve had been two nights before, and he'd barely slept. Each time his eyes closed, all he could see was that great big snake attacking Hermione and Potter, its fangs sinking into the boy's flesh. He knew Hermione would be safe; she'd personally assured him of it. Yet he had paced for half the night, torn between Apparating to Godric's Hollow and trying to find where they would go for Potter to be treated. There were things that Hermione had not mentioned explicitly, and he was inclined to believe that this was one of them, as if she knew beyond a doubt that the protective instinct that simmered under his skin would extend to her.

Of course it bloody well did. Foolish woman.

Last night had been almost comical in its hellish nature. Riddle had been mad with anger, his wand merely moving from target to target without any clear direction. It was his sodding snake, but that didn't seem to matter. Severus scratched the stubble on his cheek and, as usual, repeated the mantra from Hermione's letters: _not long now._

"Now, Black," he said after shaking his head to bring his mind back. "The Forest of Dean. I expect you to run into your frame in the office to make the announcement in a few minutes. Make a good show of it, will you?"

"Of course," Phineas agreed promptly. "And… if I may be so bold – perhaps this is the ideal time to test the waters. Start making a change or two. I imagine that she'll write to you if it works. "

Severus strode into the office without a backward glance, sure that if he did look, Black would know that his arrow had hit smack bang into the middle of the target.

…

It was almost like fishing. After the sword had been made ready in the middle of lake, Severus began to cast the line. The doe (a relief, after the tumultuous few months corresponding with Hermione; it was good to know that some things had stayed the same) was the lure and he moved through the Forest of Dean silently, concentrating on the magical traces he found. He was far from where the Acromantulas were, though trails from Snatchers were littered throughout the trees. Thankfully, none were fresh enough to catch his interest.

His doe pranced in front of him, casting an ethereal glow on the surrounding forest. Severus kept a tight rein on his Patronus, the concentration and constant surveillance almost giving him a blinding headache before –

There!

Head whipping to the right, he stepped back behind a tree and waved his wand. The doe disappeared to retrieve the catch.

…

He found Hermione not long after ascertaining that the boys would live. Somehow Severus knew that this, right at this moment, was the turning point. He stood outside of the borders of her wards for five solid minutes, feeling the magical pull to simply turn away and leave. It wasn't resulting from her spells – he already knew that, for some unknown reason, she had trusted him at this point.

After all of his careful research over the months, Severus knew, without any trace of uncertainty, that it was _time_ that was trying to push him away. Whatever he was about to do (and he had no idea what that was – the boys would be gone for at least an hour if his diversion spells worked, which they would) was not what he was _meant_ to do. Phineas had spoken of his leash, and it was tightening by the second the longer he stood and looked at the vacant, snow covered land that would become their tent in just a few short paces of his legs.

And then he heard her, and all of his deliberation went out the proverbial window.

Severus walked determinedly through the wards, ignoring the strange pain in his chest that dissipated as soon as the tent came into view, along with the young woman curled up into a ball in front of it.

Hermione was sobbing quietly, her head resting on the knees that were tucked up in front of her chest. Severus was immobile as he watched her, understanding dawning that _this_ was the woman who was writing him letters. Not the girl who was his student with a hand always waving in the air.

No; everything had changed for Hermione, and she had changed with it. He didn't really know how he felt about that; he'd prefer that she was that innocent, annoying girl again, but he was selfish enough to recognise that if she was that girl, she wouldn't be the woman that wrote to him of things that no one had ever _spoken_ to him, let alone put to paper.

Hating himself for it, yet not knowing what else to do, Severus removed the charm that silenced his steps and put one deliberate foot forward heavily into the snow. The crunch had her body tense immediately ( _good girl,_ he thought approvingly) and in the blink of an eye she was standing with one hand out, a look of anger on her face as she took in the sight of him entering the boundary of the wards.

He hadn't been prepared to see her like this: gaunt, exhausted… overwhelmed. The protective, possessive anger that sparked within him at the sight was disturbing and hauntingly familiar.

"Don't come any closer," she said firmly, voice barely wavering. "There are spells all around this tent and-"

"And your wards _recognise_ me," said Severus, cutting her off with a sharp movement of his hand that made her scowl. He understood then that no matter how he felt about this woman, that now, in 1997, she did not _know_ what she knew in 1998. He could not dive right in. But he could wade in at the deep end, all the same.

"Are you… Are you going to hurt me?" There was a light of defiance in her brown eyes that should have irritated him; strangely, it endeared her to him.

He couldn't even enter the reality of what was happening. His heart was thudding within his chest, but for the life of him, he could not fathom why. "Why are you crying?"

She curled her lip incredulously and rubbed her sleeve roughly over her eyes. "Why do you _care?_ "

Severus shrugged. "Your emotions are out of hand, Miss Granger. Rein them in. You do yourself no favours by-"

"Sod _off,_ Snape," she hissed, crossing her arms over her thin chest. "What do you want?" Teeth chattering, she attempted to stare him down, but the effect was tempered by occasional sniffs. Taking the hint, he strode forward and held up his hands to show he wasn't holding his wand, before swiftly removing his cloak and shoving it onto her shoulders.

"You don't fool me," Hermione said, glowering from underneath the black material. It swamped her, almost comically so, but it didn't stop her from pulling it around her body and burrowing into it. She sat back down on the ground and raised a single eyebrow when he sat down awkwardly beside her.

"Why?"

"You know both wandless and wordless magic. It says nothing when you hold your hands up like a character on The Bill."

"True," he allowed, casting a quick cushioning charm behind their backs and leaning against the invisible, soft barrier.

"Show off."

Sneering slightly, he risked a glance at Hermione who was looking at him with a puzzled expression. The anger seemed to have left her as quickly as it arrived.

"What are you _doing_ here?"

Shrugging again, Snape pulled a shrunken bag out of his pocket and tossed it over his shoulder into the tent. "Supplies," he explained bluntly.

She drew in a breath and frowned. "Thank you… though if you knew you were always able to access the wards, why didn't you just throw it from outside- oh. You've been doing that, haven't you? I thought it was… someone else, I guess." She tossed him an apologetic grimace. "Sorry. At least you know you play your part well."

He nodded. "Yes." Acknowledging her comment was daring, but the flicker of surprise in her eyes was worth it.

"Too well?" She scooted closer; for once he was warmer than someone else.

Thinking nothing of it, he pulled out a small scrap of woollen fabric and enlarged it to cover both of their laps, though settling it over them so the bulk of it was on her. Her faint sound of gratefulness went straight to his heart and so he was honest when he finally replied, "Indeed."

"So, if you've been helping us for so long, why show your face tonight? Did something happen?" She seemed to come to some conclusion in her mind, and grabbed onto his wrist. He flinched, unused to such contact, but she ignored it. "It's not my parents, is it?"

"No," he said at once. His tone was curt, as he hadn't quite managed to mask the annoyance and disappointment when she realised she still had a hold of his wrist and mumbled an apology before releasing it. "I have heard nothing about your parents. Nothing happened out of the ordinary; I just wanted to check…" He glowered into his lap then shrugged. "Why were you crying?"

"Oh." Hermione turned away and sighed. It was a forlorn sound; he found himself wondering whether the woman of 1998 would rest her head on his shoulder at such a moment. Though that did not prepare him for when _this_ woman beside him did the same thing. There was no controlling the reaction of his body when her head rested against wool of his frock coat; his muscles seized and he was still, though she did not move. Their bodies touched in no other place, save for where her nest of horrid hair was tickling his neck. He made no move to brush it away. He rather thought he should – he wasn't one of her little friends, or even one of the more approachable teachers. But he didn't.

He was so used to conversing with her that he didn't even see her as a student anymore. That should have been a warning sign, but Severus wasn't looking for one. Sod it.

"Thank you for bothering to check," she said in a small voice. "Sorry. I'm sure that I'm making you terribly uncomfortable but I don't know if I can put into words how bloody _lonely_ it is at the moment. You understand what I mean, don't you? I thought you would. Ron's gone," – Severus ignored a flash of jealousy – "and Harry's… well, you know. Harry is Harry."

He grunted in agreement then held his breath when her head on his shoulder relaxed against him, becoming heavier as she grew more comfortable. "I assume that is why you attempted to stave me off without a wand?"

"Oh, erm, yes," mumbled Hermione and Severus allowed himself a short grin, glad that she couldn't see his face. He could picture just how her cheeks would be flushing. "I ah… anyway, Harry's is broken. So we're taking turns depending on who's on watch. I presume you heard about Godric's Hollow."

"I did. Quite a foolish thing to do, Miss Granger. I don't know how on earth you managed to come to such a stupid decision-"

"Leave off," she grumbled then shivered again. He huffed and cast a warming charm in her general direction, immeasurably pleased when she shyly moved closer so their sides touched. He stayed as still as stone. "Anyway, how was your Christmas?"

He barked out a laugh at the absurd question and shook his head, smirking into the air when she chuckled softly, the sound muffled by his cloak that she'd pulled up to cover her chin and neck. "It was rather dull, save for a… meeting in the evening."

Putting two and two together, Hermione froze and sat up fully. He ignored her; years of being Head meant that he knew without a doubt when a young woman was about to burst into tears, and so he stuck his arm out awkwardly and drew her head back to his shoulder so he wouldn't have to see. "What was your expression? Ah, yes. 'Leave off', Miss Granger."

She snorted and replied with a flat tone, "I suppose you have no desire to see someone visibly worried for you, do you sir?"

"Absolutely not," he said with a nod. Though if pushed, he wouldn't deny that it was extremely pleasant. "It is a waste of time. Now, do the three of you require anything? There are potions within the bag inside, but if anything specific is needed-"

"We don't need anything," Hermione said quickly. "It's enough to have you here, sir. It's awfully kind of you to show up…"

"Miss Granger," he said sternly, "do I need to tell you that this must remain a secret?"

"No, you don't," she replied with a harrumph. "Harry mustn't know. I understand."

"Nor can Mister Weasley," Severus reminded her, then brushed aside his annoyance with the arrogant arsehole ( _how could Weasley even think of leaving her?)_ and told Hermione of the sword, and the return of the third member of the Trio. To his surprise, she let loose with a string of insults that would have been more suited in a pub than coming out of her mouth.

"He's a git," she snarled into his shoulder. "He bloody well left us and now he's back. He probably thinks that everything will just be the same with us now but it _won't._ God, I can't understand him one bit anymore. I mean, I know that it was the… never mind. I'm just _sick_ of him."

Flummoxed, Severus was silent while she continued to rant, waving her arms around to cement her points. When she hadn't stopped for another minute, he ignored her annoyed grunt to shift so he could rummage in his pocket for a cigarette.

"Do you mind?" he interrupted her and held it up, bemused when she shook her head eagerly.

"Oh, please do. I've missed the smell, if you'd believe it."

"I don't," he returned dryly, conjuring a quick flame and taking a long first drag to calm his mind that was running rampant with not-so-innocent thoughts. He nudged her side to encourage her to raise her head, and she moved to rest against the magical cushioned barrier behind them, mirroring the way he was seated by stretching her legs out and letting her head fall back close beside his. Severus stared into the night sky, studiously avoiding giving in to his curiosity to observe her better. Then her low voice began to speak, and he decided that that was enough.

"My dad smokes. Or used to smoke. Maybe he doesn't anymore… but he used to have one every few days, just one, mind you. Didn't want to ruin his teeth. Sorry," she added, biting her lip when he rolled his eyes. "He's Australian, you know. Mum thought the smoking was sexy at first." She gave a little laugh and her cheeks flushed pink again. Severus ground his teeth together, aware that he had begun to appreciate the looks of the woman beside him.

"But when I was born, she had him showering and changing his clothes before he could hold me. So he stopped for a while, then when I went to Hogwarts he started up again. He was always a wreck when I was away during term, which is funny really because mum was always so calm and collected about it all. His study always smelled of smoke… the boys wouldn't get it, but…" Hermione paused and eyed him thoughtfully. "May I h-"

"No," he denied her, taking pleasure in sounding out the word slowly. "You certainly may not."

"Worth a try," she grumbled and settled back against him. "When are they coming back?"

"Your little hangers on?" He turned his head away and blew a small ring of smoke. "Half an hour, then you'll hear them traipsing through the undergrowth like trolls."

She made a noncommittal hum, and Severus felt the helpless stupidity of not knowing what he was supposed to say. Perhaps he could begin with: 'I'm corresponding with your future self, and it seems that I am quite enamoured by Hermione in 1998'? No… he stubbed out the cigarette into the cold ground then vanished it.

In the end, she broke the silence, allowing him to let his anxious thoughts descend into subterranean, unspoken depths. "Do you know what I think about? When there's nothing else to do?"

"Enlighten me," he intoned; there was no malice at all in his voice, only quiet interest.

"Marietta Edgecombe. Can you believe it?"

It only took him a moment of contemplation to say, "I can, actually. It seems fitting, for you."

"What do you mean?" she asked. They were still beside each other, each with their faces directed skywards. "What do you mean, fitting for me?"

He drew in a deep breath. "It was your turning point. Not that it was the first calculated, harmful act you have done – let me finish," he added when she gasped. "We all of us have things that mark the change from _relative_ innocence to awareness of our abilities. The marks will fade, you know."

"Not entirely," she said morosely. Severus regretted his words, though, when Hermione screwed her lips up and said in a puzzled yet gentle voice, "What was your turning point?"

His body flinched again and he stared at her, astonished at both her audacity and his own ability to kick himself in the shins. He certainly should've expected that, but he had been lulled like a fool by the not unwelcome sense of peace, ironic considering they were in the middle of a forest in winter, hiding from a monster.

Unnerved by the peculiar smile on her face, Severus managed to say, "That is none of your business."

"Of course it isn't," she said, chastened. "Sorry. Shit… really. Sorry, Professor."

Galloping over some invisible line of decorum, he stunned himself by beginning to speak anyway. "Regardless, there are too many times to speak of and there are not enough hours in the day or night to even begin to detail the decisions I have made, or have been forced to make." He lit up again, looking away from her this time, to hide his shaking hands.

"Oh… then I guess you'll be going soon?"

"Now, in fact," Severus replied, wishing that he didn't have to. Her shoulders fell and she sighed again. _Interesting._

"All right, then… Will you be… Will you be coming back?"

Dumbfounded, Severus stared at her with wide eyes. "Do you _wish_ me to?"

Hermione spluttered and stammered a few unintelligible remarks then looked at their feet. "I might do."

"Sweet Circe," he said without thinking, then felt his mouth twitching at the sides when she gave a small hoot of laughter. Her smile went straight to his heart; he barely noticed the snow beginning to fall. "As much as I would love to sit here on the ground freezing my bollocks off again, Miss Granger, I do not really have the time. It was enough of a mistake to do so in the first place." There. Honesty was good, he reminded himself.

"Oh." She watched him stand, quite an awkward feat with half of a cigarette between his lips and knees complaining. "That's true. But, you know, if you did…"

"I shall consider it, Granger," he said gruffly when she unfolded her limbs and stood in front of him, far too pleased than he should be. "And… do _try_ not to get yourself killed anytime soon."

"I will, sir," Hermione said with a grin. "You too."

"Impertinent witch," he muttered, shaking his head and fixing her with his best scowl. She made to return the cloak but he waved her off. "I trust you are still able to remember how to transfigure things. Change it to fit you."

Without waiting for another word, he stalked away, aware that her eyes were following him. Gods, he really didn't want to but he couldn't stop himself from turning around before disappearing into the trees. She smiled and raised her hand, the ghost of a laugh reaching his ears on the wind when he merely frowned in her direction and turned on his heel.

Severus was in so, so much trouble.

…

The next morning, exactly a year later, Hermione awoke with a gasp, the dream fresh in her mind almost as if it were _real_ …

"Oh, good lord!"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N** _Greetings, insatiable minxes! This is two chapters in one (literally – you'll probably be able to ascertain where I would've cut it) as I'll have a few days without net access next week, so wanted to give you all a big chunk to last us all until next time. Also - I'm going off a timeline online, so if any dates are a bit wonky, I'll gladly not take responsibility ;-) I promise that the ending is not actually the cliffhanger that it seems!_

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

Hermione hurled the dainty floral tea cup through the air and stood back to watch as it shattered against the wall of the sitting room. She'd left the bag in, and the liquid that streamed down the pale cream wall was almost black.

Quite fitting, really, considering Hermione Granger was feeling rather mutinous. And those feelings were directed solely at herself.

How _could_ she have insulted him by underestimating his intelligence so spectacularly? Oh – judging by the dream she'd had that wasn't really a dream in the first place, Severus had it all figured out. He knew he had a death sentence; he _knew_ there was something to be changed and he'd taken the first step of doing so.

And Hermione had left him to do all of that on his own.

 _Why_ had she even thought it best that she pace her revelations? What had possessed her?

A lack of understanding was the obvious answer, which was fathomable to some extent. After all, it wasn't every day that an opportunity to modify the past presented itself. In fact, given the fact that Hogwarts itself seemed to be her ally in the entire endeavour, Hermione preferred to think (somewhat selfishly, but she couldn't be bothered to care about that) that the castle would not have facilitated the communication if it weren't _right._

She sat down at the kitchen table with a huff of exasperation, then immediately set her wand to the task of repairing the tea cup. Honestly, why her mother kept such things was beyond her; Jean Granger was a woman with a one track mind when her interest was piqued. When she was working, it didn't matter whether the tea cup was plastic or fine china – they stacked up in the study all the same, discarded on textbooks and bookcases until they were a part of the office landscape. Snorting, Hermione remembered when her dad had once staged a rescue mission for the Romanov style coffee cups gifted to them by her grandparents after they'd bought the house; he'd gone in with opaque sunglasses and a torch while humming along to the Imperial March.

Was it ever a wonder that she'd managed to attract the help of a sentient, magical castle with parents such as hers?

She stared with a silly grin at the shrunken bedside table that sat on top of her closed school trunk. There were currently two distinct feelings warring within her, and both were unexpected.

Disappointment was one, though not with Severus – it was with _her,_ that she'd managed to get so close to botching everything without making much effort. He was a man that was inherently suspicious (unsurprising given the very faint knowledge she had of his history as a student – Harry had only touched on it once, preferring to not highlight how he'd gone behind Snape's back to view his memories during the always doomed Occlumency lessons) and Hermione had been walking a dangerous line by not being completely upfront with him from the beginning. Not that she'd lied; she promised that she wouldn't, and she hadn't. But she had made him go along with her own little timeline of when he should receive the information. Not for much longer.

The second was elation. Even now, thinking of how he had tested the change by coming to _her,_ offering her _comfort…_

"Quite lovely, really," she mumbled to the kitchen table, shooting another glance at the trunk. She clearly remembered now that he'd given her his cloak – the warm, woollen black cloak that she'd burrowed her face into and breathed in the scent that clung to it when he wasn't looking – and the item itself had been found not long after she'd woken with his soft, velvet voice still echoing through her mind.

It was a dangerous thing; an enticing thing. Part of her wanted to write a letter and demand that he return to her past self, just so she could see him again. Waking up as if he had just left her was an intoxicating feeling – she felt everything: her own real-time thoughts as she processed it, along with the emotions that her past self experienced. None of which were particularly shocking, though the veracity was new. She'd fancied Severus, yes, in a fairly innocent, teenage way. Yet now her schooling was almost over (should have been over, really; the façade of a student was not hers to try on, though she wore it all the same) and she had lived many lives between the days of admiring the slim figure and commanding nature of the man that disarmed Lockhart with a natural, delectable confidence.

Hermione a year ago had reacted to Severus' presence with all of the enthusiasm of a motorcycle roaring to life, kick started by dragon hide boots. She'd channelled all of her helpless anger towards the situation and turned it into admiration and heady, all encompassing lust. Her eyes had been glued to his body, to the way his hands gesticulated his points, how his thin, soft looking lips formed words in a voice that left her breathless. In that moment, she wanted him.

Smugness was there, too; in her defence, her past self had not exchanged letters with the man, had not begun to truly fall for him – Hermione in 1997 was only ridiculously glad that Severus Snape had chosen to visit her, of all people, and sit beside her as if he wanted to do so.

Now, a few days after Christmas in 1998, she could easily picture him leaning against the invisible barrier of the cushioning charm he'd created, drawing in deeply from the cigarette. Snape smoking wasn't unexpected; she'd spotted the faint yellow stains on his fingertips years before, and she was glad that he'd seen fit to indulge in front of her. Hermione in his present had responded eagerly to the familiar scent of tobacco, and with her newfound memories, she knew that in 1997, there were at least four or five nights after Severus' visit that she had had no nightmares at all.

But there was nothing else – there were no other new memories. Not even the scene in the Shack had changed, though she had spent at least an hour meticulously writing down every single moment she could recall.

And that was a relief. Hermione hated it, but it was what was needed. She sighed, resigned to write the letter that had to be written, and then checked her watch. It could wait.

…

For a laugh, she took Phineas with her to the local shops, giggling all the way as he bellowed quite inventive obscenities from the passenger seat of her dad's battered yellow 1981 Austin Metro. The frame was rather large and almost filled up the entire seat, but it was worth it to see how the old man was fighting between indignant impatience and reluctant interest. She even wondered if Severus himself might be similar but she squashed that thought quickly – he'd probably incinerate the old bomb of a car on sight. Chuckling, she pulled into a spot in front of the only shop open in their smaller town and internally berated herself for not taking more of Molly's Christmas dinner leftovers.

On the way home, she stopped at the video store and grabbed a few titles to last her over the next few nights before she was due to return to Hogwarts, then putted home and put the food away without a wand to waste time before putting pen to paper.

"I don't want to write it."

"That's fair," Phineas said with a small shrug from his spot on the couch. "But please do soon. You've been dragging me all around town like all of those months in your handbag. I was not fond of that time, girl."

She snorted and rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the film she'd put on in an effort to last until night time before writing. Severus was usually free to at least write a line or two if she timed her letters to just before her eyes closed of their own accord. Phineas cleared his throat and she looked away from Jerry Maguire before her eyes prickled ("What do you want from me? My soul?" – "Why not? I deserve that much.").

"Perhaps you do not need to write too much," he suggested. "Would your memories not serve you better in this situation? The pages from your diary of that year, and then an actual memory of the Shack that he can view in the pensieve. It would 'save the trees', at least."

"Ha! I always knew that you had a bleeding heart, Phineas," she commented dryly. "But I have considered it… I'm just hesitant, I suppose. For all that I've written and he's written, there's… well, there's a gulf between us. And I can't fix that, because I can't go back in time now, can I? All I want is to see him in person… properly, as I am now. But I don't even know if he survived. I can't just…" She paused, eyes narrowing. Recognising the look of Hermione thinking furiously, Black leaned forward.

"Can't what?"

"Well… I can't just tell him to come to me… or can I? I mean, technically, I can ask him to come to me in a year's time for him. Then if he's alive, I'll know!"

"Optimistic," Black deadpanned. "The idea has merit – don't scoff, it's unbecoming – but do you not think that he would be more comfortable simply receiving the information without any need for him to deal with such a request as well? He needs to focus, girl. Now more than ever. Give him the memories, and give him as much time as he needs to think about them. It's the end of December – your memories will tell him the date of the Final Battle and he'll know that he has time to get a strategy together. But of course you must make sure to tell him not to change anything again. I'm sure your meeting was…" He looked away and gave another elegant shrug. "…productive, but such things can wait."

"Whatever you say."

"Are you still planning to leave out your time in the Manor? You know I do not think that it is wise."

"Yes, yes I know. You're right, of course." Hermione sighed and scratched at the scars on her arm absentmindedly. "It's my story to tell though, isn't it? Any outcomes that were even remotely related to it have been written down for him anyway. So, no. I can't even make myself begin to write about it. But I know you're right."

"Ah. You should record that. It would make for much better watching than this insipid fool." Phineas gestured towards Tom Cruise. "The state of the Magical world today is indeed troubling if this is considered entertainment."

"Only for us uncultured Muggles," Hermione responded, smirking.

Phineas smiled and offered her a wry grin. "Not always. Severus had an owl named Beetlejuice once."

"Oh, God, stop!" She groaned once her ungraceful cackles of laughter had subsided. "I'll write the letter and get some key memories together. And give it a rest with the tidbits about Severus, would you? I already know that he's bloody wonderful. There's no need for you to rub it in."

Black only cocked an eyebrow and strolled out of the frame, not deigning to even reply.

/

 _Severus –_

 _You came! I still cannot believe it. I woke up this morning feeling as if you had just left. I found your cloak in the bottom of my trunk… it still carries your scent._

 _There is something that I must apologise for. Truly, I did not mean to leave you alone in this; I should have told you what I knew of your fate. We could have worked on everything together instead of me leaving you to research on your own. I don't know why I didn't tell you straight away… I think I was worried that if you did not completely believe me (you do now, don't you?), you would not take me seriously. I couldn't risk that._

 _I know that you expect to die in this war. How do I know that? Because you are strong – stronger than anyone. You are. Regardless of your opinion of yourself, you have given everything to protect us, and your honour would have you believe that dying for us would be fulfilling every promise you have ever made. I understand that, now. I'm sorry._

 _But I have hope, too. It's almost sickening, because I have no way of knowing if my wish will come to fruition, but regardless – I have hope. I hope that you will take on what I am writing to you, and that you will read and view the memories I am sending to you along with this letter. I hope that you will use them to live, Severus. Why else have we been given this chance, this opportunity, to communicate? With the information that I have given, you can begin to prepare yourself. I will be here with you every step of the way._

 _I have sent you the pages from my diary that detail events between now and May. I took particular care to speak to as many participants as possible over the last few months, and so the Final Battle has been recorded with as much information as I could get._

 _The two memories for your pensieve are vastly different. The first is what we can change – it is your death, or at least, what I saw of it. You gave something to Harry at that moment; you will understand, I think, when you view it… it would be a good idea to do so again. You sacrificed your privacy, yes, but if you do not do it, then I cannot guess what sort of world you will awaken to when you do survive._

 _As for the second memory… you would call it frivolous. Well, to be fair, it is. It is the memory of when you came to me on the night you left the sword in the lake. Despite the House that I was Sorted into, it is much easier to send this knowing that I won't see the reaction to it. But I wanted to tell you somehow, that if you were ever to come to me in the present, now that everything is over and there are no more risks… You would not be unwelcome, Severus. Not at all._

 _I want us to keep writing to each other, even though I think you know just as well as I do that we cannot see each other again in your present/my past. There are too many things that could change. And I am not downplaying it; even now, over a year after you came to me, the_ _elation_ _that came with seeing you has not left me. If anything, it has intensified._

 _I do not want to lose you. Not again. Now that I understand what it means to know you, I would move mountains to save you. Or snakes. Whatever. Don't laugh at me like that; you once said my haphazard letters have a certain charm, so I'm holding you to that._

 _Live, Severus. You will always have a friend in me for as long as you need me, and even if you need me no longer, consider me fastened to your side all the same. Just as you are for me._

 _It seems cruel that to see me, you would have to wait a year. But my deepest wish is that you do._

 _Know that just as you may wait for me, I will be waiting for you. No matter what happens, if you decide to come to me, do it. I'll be here._

 _Yours,_

 _Hermione._

 _/_

There. It was done.

And though she would never confess it to Phineas, she was rather proud of herself for not throwing caution to the wind and admitting that she was falling in love with him.

Still, if she was lucky, perhaps she'd have the chance to tell him in person. One day.

When no reply came in the first few minutes, Hermione rose from the couch to have one last cup of tea, making sure to let it steep until it was strong enough to need two teaspoons of sugar. If she was to stay awake to make sure he'd watched the memories, she'd need it.

…

Severus read the letter slowly, drinking in each time her pen had paused and left a smudge of ink, or hurtled too quickly and almost ripped the page. He didn't want the letter to end. But end it did, and so he turned to the two vials of memories. Reluctant to enter into an internal debate about which one would be easier to view (strangely, the answer was not actually clear), he closed his eyes and picked up the first one his fingers found.

When he came out of the pensieve, he staggered back and reached out blindly behind him before sinking into the cushions on the three seater opposite the fire.

"Was it worth it?" Phineas called out as he moved into view. "You look terrible."

"Yes, well… I feel terrible," he muttered, staring at the ceiling. "It's Nagini. The bloody snake. How ironic."

Phineas rolled his shoulders. "It's fitting, don't you think? It works perfectly with the imbecile's taste for theatrics. Kill you with the same snake that bit Arthur Weasley, considering you were the one that spent two sleepless nights creating the antidote. Git."

"My students call me that," Severus remarked idly.

"Yes, well, they've never been particularly creative, have they? You've never hurt a fly unless they roped you into an Unbreakable Vow and handed you a swatter. Bugger them."

"I like you when you've been drinking," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "Where do you even get the grog?"

"Ah," Phineas tapped his nose. "That, my learned friend, is… absolutely none of your business."

"Christ, it's the Fat Lady isn't it? She's always pissed. You two have an understanding, don't you?"

"Stop distracting yourself, you pillock. Watch the next memory, and then read the rest. Call me only when you're ready to talk tactics and strategy; your insinuations are…" He gave a delicate shudder. "…ghastly." He began to walk out of the frame then shot Severus a shrewd look. "And make sure you keep the girl updated. I have a suspicion that it'll be me that will hear her endless theories if you stay silent now."

"Yes, yes." Severus waved a hand vaguely in the air, having already Summoned a pen and a sheet of parchment.

"Headmaster?"

"What?"

"Watch the next memory. _Then_ write."

"The day I take advice about women from _you_ -"

"Ah – she's a woman now, is she?"

"Oh sod off," Severus grumbled, groaning in relief when Black sidled away. Yet even though his predecessor was often annoying and outspoken, he still found himself hurrying to the table again and standing over the swirling pensieve with a thudding heart. There was no way of knowing just what he was about to see, but he could not ignore the feeling that he was standing at a precipice; that he could step forward and fall, flailing and helpless, or he could walk backwards and forge a new path to self determination.

And, though he thought this very quietly and very cautiously, perhaps he might just visit Hermione if he could. Any man would be a fool to ignore a beautiful (there – he'd admitted it) woman (yes, woman) that looked at him as if he were the sun. And even if she didn't, he liked to think that he'd be able to visit her anyway. Severus was becoming rather fond of Hermione, of this strange young woman that seemed to think he was worth all of the time she had been spending while writing to him. He could not see _why_ she seemed to feel the things she did about him, especially after he saw the second memory and the way her eyes followed his every movements; she looked like _he_ did when he watched her while she wasn't looking.

Even without that… without this connection that bound them, he might still wish to see her. She was the embodiment of what Severus had always found _interesting_ in women – highly intelligent, confident (if only to the outside world), pleasing to behold… he did not hold a candle to that, but sod it all; didn't he deserve a bit of goodness in his life? And if goodness came in the form of accepting the admiration of Hermione Granger and even returning it, then he'd take hold of it with two hands.

Unless he cocked it up. Which was probably inevitable.

/

 _Hermione,_

 _I have read through the diary entries, and shall do so again. They will be invaluable and for that, I thank you. To have the date, to know when this will end… the gift your trust has given me is priceless. I am unable to be more verbose at the moment. It seems that when I consider your belief that I deserve such things, speech drops off by the wayside._

 _The memories… I do not yet have the words to write about the first. I might have more to say after a smoke and stiff drink – charming, no? For now: Phineas is on the warpath. I think you have taught him a thing or two, Hermione, and so that fact should be of comfort to you, though it is not to me; I fear he will become even more formidable than he already is. You've created a monster._

 _The second memory…_

 _I should like to have a friend._

 _What more can I say? Only that I have viewed it five times, and still I do not understand. We will talk about this. If I can come to you, do not doubt that I will do so._

 _Yours (though you may come to regret it),_

 _Severus._

 _/_

Hermione fell asleep with his reply held to her heart.

…

 **March, 1999**

The languid sweetness of knowing he valued her, that he signed random letters (not every single one; he kept her on her toes, that was for sure) afterwards with 'Yours, Severus', did not last. For it was only in the third month after the Christmas break that a letter came to Hermione while she was in up to her neck with frantic studying before breakfast. She barely understood what the words even meant at first; they were smudged and rushed, and the page itself was singed, as if the rest of the parchment had been aflame.

When the meaning became clear, she swore and scrambled for writing materials, cursing herself and her stupidity, all the while knowing that after professing her trust and faith in the man, she had just thrown it all back in his face.

After everything they had gone through together – and it really did feel as if everything they had experienced had been done as a team, a pair that was a secret for each of them – it had all gone up as if caught in fiendfyre.

/

 _Tell me you were all right, and that is the reason why you neglected to even mention the Manor and Bellatrix fucking Lestrange._

 _/_

 _Severus – Severus, please, I'm sorry. I was all right. I will be all right. It was awful, but I survived, Severus. You know that I did. We're talking now. It's all right – I'm right here!_

 _/_

 _Lucius called me to the Manor, Hermione. I saw the elf taking you away. Think, woman – I_ _saw_ _you, looking as if you were dead already. Your blood was still damp on the carpet when I was able to leave. I had_ _no way_ _of contacting_ _anyone_ _to ascertain whether or not you were alive. Am I just hallucinating all of these letters?_

 _Tell me: did you omit the truth purely because you did not trust that I know how to handle myself? Or was it some noble need to disguise your own suffering? Is that how your idea of friendship works? If so, I want no part in it._

 _/_

 _I don't know why I didn't tell you. It was my own experience, Severus, and I did not want to dwell on it._

 _I trust you. Completely and utterly. I did not think that you would see anything…_

 _Please, Severus. I'm sorry._

 _/_

 _Do you know what it felt like to see you in such a state? I thought I had lost you._

 _/_

 _Hermione – it is of no matter. Disregard my previous missive. If there are other events that I should be made aware of, then do so at your leisure. I thank you for your information regarding my demise. I am in your debt._

 _SS._

 _/_

And try as she might, through countless letters and pleading words, Hermione received no real replies from Severus at all. At most, he would send a line or two every week, acknowledging her and thanking her for the batteries that she still sent on Sunday evenings, without fail. He did not sign any more letters with 'Yours', though none of the words contained any of the curtness that was layered over the first few so many months before. It was a small consolation to know that he no longer felt the need to cover his tracks with sly remarks and insults, but it hurt even more to understand that he was being honest about feeling disappointed with her.

…

 **April, 1999**

The weeks wore on and on; they were filled to overflowing with essays, assigned readings and extra preparation for her NEWTs, yet it did not ease the ache in her chest whenever Hermione thought of Severus. She sent him letters twice a day, staying beside the table just to watch it open and shut on its own, showing her that he was at least reading them if not responding. She understood that he meant to acknowledge her, to give her comfort in some way; that even though he did not wish to continue their friendship, he was telling her in his own way that he was well enough and functioning. And that he did not want her to go out of her mind with worry. It would have been lovely, if it wasn't completely redundant.

But for all of his good intentions, it did not comfort her. Like poisoned honey, all it did was remind her that he was so _close_ to her, but the sweetness that had come from his correspondence and one visit was gone. The sour taste it left on her tongue was upsetting and frustrating all at once.

Her hands ached to be travellers that mapped the soft, pale skin on his body, and she'd never even had the chance to touch him. For all that she'd vowed to be fastened to his side, now she wanted to be mended to him, to stitch herself under his skin and stay there.

The library became more of a refuge than usual. More students stayed as late as possible to ready themselves for the upcoming exams, and Hermione had no desire to study alone in her private rooms. Most nights found her at one table with Ginny, Luna and Neville, and she was thankful that there were so many opportunities to distract herself from Severus. Her exams were still paramount – after all the effort she had made towards them over the years, there was no chance of letting them slip through her fingers – and she would have even enjoyed this time if it weren't for the niggling feelings of doubt and concern in her stomach when she slept at night with the drawer to the bedside table open. She would place her hand inside and let it rest there awkwardly while she slept, and indulged her mind by allowing it free rein to imagine that the warmth of the heating in the room was instead the gentle heat of Severus' hand closing over her own.

It felt a lot like unrequited love, but Hermione was studiously avoiding that for now.

…

 **May, 1999**

 _/_

 _Severus,_

 _Are you ready? I do wish you would write to me the way you used to… I want to know what you have planned._

 _/_

 _Hermione,_

 _The only plan is that you should not remember anything new._

 _I am ready._

 _Severus._

 _/_

 _Ready for what? Severus? Tell me, please. There are only a few hours until you will be told of our approach… please. Won't you tell me? I want to be beside you._

 _The Minister has organised a ridiculous event to mark the anniversary; a mourning occasion, so to speak. Some of the old guard in the Ministry wanted a ball, but they've settled for speeches and an open bar for all of us sad sods. I have to be there._

 _Phineas told me never, ever to do this but damn it I'm doing it now. You might not want anything to do with me, Severus, but I want something to do with_ _you._ _I want to see you. I don't care that you're being a stubborn bastard, and I don't care that you've turned me into a whining witch. I forgive you, and in turn I ask that you forgive me, too._

 _Wait for me – come tonight. Wait the twelve months and show up! You will be well received, you know that now._

 _Please. Please, Severus. Come to me. And for god's sake, tell me what you're going to do!_

 _/_

"Hermione? Are you coming? You look lovely."

"Oh shove off, Harry. I look like I've stuck my finger in an electric socket. That charm didn't work for your hair, did it? Not for me either, obviously."

"I've given up the search. I've decided it's what I'll be known for."

"The-Boy-With-Bad-Hair?"

"Nah. The-Boy-With-Charmingly-Dishevelled-Locks. Works, doesn't it?" He was incandescent with happiness, and the jibe at his title was ridiculous considering she knew that all he wanted was for Ginny to take one look at him and try to smooth his hair with her slim fingers like she always did.

"Good lord." Hermione shook her head and wiped her hands over her sapphire coloured robes. One last look at her hair made her wince, and so she took Harry's offered arm and held out her other elbow to the empty space of the corridor, knowing it would just be a few more seconds until-

"I'm here, I'm here," Ron wheezed from behind them and jogged the remaining distance to stand at her other side. "Sorry I'm late."

"Lavender?" Harry asked with a twitch of his lips, and Ron spluttered. Taking pity on him and his newfound sense of tact, Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You have something on your neck Ron," she drawled, hiding behind mirth so jealousy wouldn't rear its ugly head. Not for Ron – never for Ron – but for open affection and surety.

She lasted an hour at the event before she ducked out during Kingsley's speech. Verbose the man was not, but it reeked of being penned by Percy and so he had already been droning on for fifteen minutes. There was no hiding her nervous, jiggling left leg, or how sweat was beginning to bead at her temple.

It felt wrong. It was _all_ wrong.

They were celebrating, but Severus was on his way to the Shack at this very moment.

Covered by the veil of night, Hermione began the walk. The grass was wet under the practical flats she wore and she stopped many times, fancying that Severus' almost silent steps were keeping up beside her.

"Oh, Severus," she mumbled, wrapping her arms around her middle as she increased her pace. All of a sudden she was running, hair charms forgotten as the messy curls streamed out behind her and around her face. Her heart was pounding, like it could beat right out of her chest. Blood roared in her ears when she saw the Shack, standing still and quiet in the darkness.

She stopped before the reach of the willow, gathering her breath but to no avail. It felt as if the battle was happening all over again; she imagined that she could see Severus taking flight to arrive through the window of the Shack, yes, but for a long few moments, the sound of her own thudding heart was like the stomps of wayward, deadly giants, and her gasps of breath as she doubled over and crouched in the grass were the screams of those who were just not quick enough to get out of the way.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione pushed herself up and began the task of getting inside, until she stood not behind where Severus would be, but next to him. Even now, there were faint red stains on the peeling wooden floor, and every whisper of the wind wrought creaks out of the dilapidated house. It was easy to believe that she could feel him here. Easy to again let her hand rest where he might find it; this time outstretched in front of him, as if her open palm might stay the beast.

She backed up to the wall and slid down it until she sat at the place where he fell.

Hermione did not know how long she kept her private vigil for him, though the tears were still flowing freely and her chest was still heaving by the time Luna's Patronus came scuttling over the floor. The silvery crab eyed her sadly then said, "Sorry to disturb you, Hermione. But I think you should come back to the Hall. Kingsley just mentioned something that may interest you."

…

"Ah, Hermione! Thank you for joining us. Good to see you, as always."

"You too, Kingsley. Of course."

The Minister nodded kindly then extended an arm for her to take. "Shall we walk? I noticed you weren't there during the impromptu meeting we just had, and I'd like to make sure all of the Order are abreast of everything going on. You're the only one that's unaware at the moment."

"Of course," she repeated dumbly, mind racing as she walked beside the tall man towards an abandoned classroom. Steps behind them heralded the arrival of Harry and Ron.

"We thought Hermione might like the company," Harry explained, Ron nodding as Kingsley shrugged.

"It's no matter. Here, come inside, please."

The Minister took the chair behind the desk at the front of the old classroom, and Hermione stood with her thighs slightly leaning against the first worktable. She had no desire to sit like a student receiving a lecture, and was heartened when the boys took their places on either side of her.

"It's really not bad," Ron whispered into her ear. "I reckon you'll think it's good news. Doesn't really phase me, I always thought-"

"Ron!" Harry admonished. "Don't spoil it. It's great news. Well, I think so."

"It just confirms everything I always thought."

"Whatever, mate. Kingsley?"

The Minister had been watching the two boys with raised eyebrows, then let his smile widen into a grin. Spreading his arms, he said, "Well, it seems you've already got two members who are willing to explain everything in detail for you. Shall I just give you the bare bones?"

Honestly! Hermione tried to stop her foot from tapping in impatience, annoyed that she was in the classroom when she should've been writing to Severus again, should've been finding out by now whether or not he survived.

The need to flee was moving through her, only dampened somewhat by Harry placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Go on," he said to Kingsley.

"Far be it from me to dawdle," Kingsley said, snorting when Hermione gave a short laugh in spite of herself at the reference to his speech. She quietened when he leaned forward. "This is important, Hermione. As I said before, everyone else in the Order is already aware, but before I go on, I want you to confirm for me that you are comfortable with every _single_ member that has served in the Order thus far. None of them make you uncomfortable in any way?"

She shook her head with a curled lip.

"Good. It's a bit of a ridiculous question, but we need to make sure that everyone is on the same page. There have been some doubts about this member, and I won't stand for them. He's done more than any of us combined and-"

"Kingsley? You're sounding like Percy," Ron butted in, smirking when the Minister chuckled and stood while straightening his robes.

"Yes, yes, you're probably right. Hermione," he looked at her and shrugged again. "I've recently found out that Severus Snape is alive - just thought that the rest of the Order might like to know."

 _"_ _What!"_

The last thing Hermione heard before collapsing onto the floor in an untidy pile of limbs, robes and horrid hair was Luna's soft voice from the doorway saying, "Harry – I _told_ you to make sure she had a soft landing!"


	11. Chapter 11

_Tying up some loose ends…_

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

 **May, 1999**

"Morning, Marcus!"

The black haired man looked up from where he was crouching in the front garden, hands full of sheers and mulch. He set the tool down then cupped his free hand around his eyes to shade them from the sun. When the figure of the woman standing on the other side of the fence came into view, Marcus offered her a wave.

"Good morning to you."

"Isn't it a lovely day?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "You said that yesterday, madam. But indeed, yes, it is lovely."

It certainly was; the day was the perfect example of the Australian springtime combined with the temperamental Victorian weather. Chilly, as Marcus' home on the Bellarine Peninsula was closed to the Bass Strait, and from there it only got colder, yet it retained some of the warmth of the mainland. As summer drew closer, the heat had begun to make itself known; this would be his first full summer in Australia, and he found that he was looking forward to the dry, windy weather. It was a change, and Marcus Prince rather liked change.

The woman let out a short peal of laughter as she curled her long fingers over the tops of the pickets. Not for the first time, Marcus felt the familiar ache in his chest at the sound.

"You do say the funniest things. I'm so glad we met, you know. Won't you come around for a drink tonight? You work too hard – we barely see you!"

"Then you're a lucky woman," he returned, smirking when she chortled. "It would be a pleasure, but you're right – I do work too hard. Perhaps another time?"

"Mmm, all right. I'll let you off just this once. But you'll have to agree soon – Wendell and I drove over to the Yarra Valley last weekend and we've got a box of the most _fabulous_ white. You'd like it – it's right up your alley. Crisp with just a light hint of sweetness."

He nodded slowly. "It does sound good. I'm working on a new brew myself, it's almost ready. Shall we say Saturday night? It'll be done by then."

"Oh, good!" Monica clapped her hands together. "Fantastic." She leant over the fence and grinned before lowering her voice to say, "You can use that wand of yours to do the dishes like last time! I wish I wasn't a – what do you call it?"

"A Muggle," he supplied, snorting.

"That's it! I could do with a few magic tricks."

"It's a good thing this government is so relaxed, madam, or you might find yourself-"

"Don't say it, I know! _Obliviated!_ "

"The very same," he confirmed dryly. "Still, yes, I shall gladly attend and do the dishes, as long as you promise to keep telling me the tale of what you remember. It's… fascinating."

"Ah, of course. And it'd be good to have your input, as someone 'in the know'. Righto, see you on the weekend Marcus!"

"Indeed. Good day, Monica."

Severus tipped his head and rose from his spot in the front garden, wincing as his knees popped and complained. He leaned over the fence and waved again when Monica turned around and raised her hand at the end of the street before turning around the corner, presumably heading towards the small cluster of local shops.

The sun was beating down on his head – he'd forgone a shading charm in favour of trying to up his Vitamin D levels the natural way – and the gentle sea breeze of the coastal town of Barwon Heads was beginning to ease off, making his always too pale English skin irritated and sweaty. With a discrete flick of his wrist, Severus sent the mulch and sheers to the shed down the back and admired the hedge he'd been pruning that was set against the fence, leaving enough room for the beginnings of a line of rose bushes.

 _Yes,_ he decided as he looked at the newly planted cuttings, _Hermione will like them._

…

Severus had not intended to end up in Australia; as he had walked down to the Shrieking Shack, a charmed bezoar in his pocket along with a plethora of complementing potions and salves, he'd thought that he might scrounge the rest of his money together and buy a cottage somewhere on the Irish coast. Close enough to home, but far enough away that he would be able to maintain a safe distance from Hermione.

As much as it stung to plan such a thing, he knew in his heart of hearts that in order to make sure that she continued to write in what was now his present, he could not contact her until after the last letters had been sent. There was a year's difference between them and when he had left the Shack in 1998, Hermione at the time had not even thought of the idea of writing to his successor. That would come a few months later, and Severus needed to ensure that it would happen. After all, now, more than anything, he understood the fickle nature that was time: he'd managed to beat it, after all.

And so he had healed himself as soon as the Trio had left, then Apparated to an old safe house he'd used during the very first war, deep in the Yorkshire moors. A good month had been spent recuperating and coaxing his voice back to life, though even now it held a hint of gravel to it. It had been as smooth as silk before, but he rather liked the new hint of roughness.

There had been many nights spent by the fire with a book sitting open on his lap that was eventually ignored as he pondered over just how to approach Hermione when the year was over. He would apologise, for one thing – not that he even thought it was necessary; she had already proven that she was not the type of woman to care about a moment of anger. And she understood him well enough to know that it was because he cared for her, because he had found himself distraught upon returning to his office after seeing her in such a state in Malfoy Manor. Even now, a year later in Australia, Severus still felt a small stab of anger at the circumstances that had allowed her to be treated in such a way.

It had taken a long time for that anger to be reduced to a simmering form, something low enough that would allow himself to take steps of going back into society. He knew without a doubt that if he let it control him, he would've personally made sure that anyone in that ballroom rotted in Azkaban. And that was not a viable solution; that was just another reason why he'd kept to himself and let time play its course.

It was difficult, to be sure; he had never wanted Hermione to be without him for the entire year. Hell, _he_ hadn't wanted to be without _her._ But the balance was delicate and the dangerous waters were shark infested. He left it alone.

And now it was May. She would have found out that he was alive only yesterday, after he'd sent a carefully worded missive to Kingsley. He was vague and did not give any hints as to his location, but if he assumed right, then Hermione wouldn't need any. Perhaps it would've been more prudent to inform her directly, but there was something he wanted finished before she came knocking, and that would be very, very soon. The rest – whether she wanted to keep up with an old sod like him – could wait. Until after her NEWTs, of course; he grinned, thinking of Hermione making her furious plans to dominate the exams before coming all the way down under just to give him a stern talking to.

He couldn't wait.

By Merlin, he was in love with her. The last year had only served to intensify it. She was everything he wanted, and everything he didn't _know_ that he wanted. Her passion, her acceptance, her understanding – all wrapped up within a tiny, bird-like package with wild, untameable hair and whiskey coloured eyes.

Monica (or rather, Jean) had Hermione's eyes. It was a strange and bittersweet thing to find himself watching his love's mother closely, just to get a glimpse of them.

Apparently, going by Hermione's knowledge of his last moments, he should have been wanting to see Lily's eyes. But those days had long left him, and instead he'd begged Potter to look at him purely to make his head turn enough so he could make out Hermione in the background. He understood now, that he'd loved Lily with all of his boyish optimism (what was left of it, anyway), and none of his adult pragmatism. Lily was a figurehead, a woman that he'd placed on a pedestal after her death. A symbol, in a way, that was used to manipulate his life for years afterwards. But she was not the woman that he loved.

After a year of contemplating it, he _knew_ love now; knew what the term meant, how it applied to him. And he had never, ever loved anyone, unless it was a young spirited woman by the name of Hermione Granger.

He stepped inside and toed off his boots, vanishing the dirt that had crept into the hall. The light blue weatherboard house was small and neat, with polished wooden floors and original high ceilings that made his steps echo as he walked. He had thought of getting carpets but Severus had lived in silence for so long that he revelled in the sounds he could make, stomping and thumping his way through the rooms. It even creaked at night, the wood shifting and moaning with the sea air that came in through the open windows of his bedroom, but even that, he loved. He was sick of silence.

It was all his. Just before the Battle, he'd emptied what was left of his vault which wasn't a small sum given that he hadn't had anything to spend his salary on for at least five years. A careful transaction had had it converted to pounds, and he'd changed that over upon his arrival in Sydney, a last minute decision that had proved to be the beginning of a run of good luck. A few days in the city was enough to convince Severus that it wasn't the place for him, and he rented a van and drove himself down to Melbourne where he stayed for a week. The changeable weather won him over, though he still wanted somewhere more peaceful. And that was how he had come to meet Monica and Wendell Wilkins, or rather, Jean and Richard Granger.

The massive stroke of luck was still fairly unbelievable, but it had happened nonetheless. Hermione had mentioned in one of her letters what names her parents were using, and he'd been in a pub near the water in St Kilda on a Friday afternoon when a couple had sat near him. Listening to conversations was a habit he'd never managed to drop, and his curiosity had been piqued at the familiar head of bushy hair that refused to be contained by the woman's various hair clips. His head had snapped up when they'd begun to talk over their shared practice, and as soon as the older, slightly grey haired man had referred to the woman as 'Mon', Severus had stood up and extended his hand to the couple, claiming to be a newly arrived Englishman who wished to settle in a more quiet area, and would they happen to have any ideas? It turned out that they had, and Monica excitedly showed him photos of the house they'd bought only a couple of years before; they had loved it so much after seeing it in a program on the tellie one night back home that the decision to make the move was almost instantaneous after that. He gave it his best shot not to sneer at that particular comment.

He was settled in Barwon Heads not long after, with the Wilkins house just down the street.

Hermione would have been upset to know that her memory charms had begun to fail. By the time he had met the couple, Jean was already beginning to question what she could recall of her life, and Richard often woke with a strange weight in his arms, as if he had dreamt about holding a child. Which couldn't be right, as he'd never had one – or had he?

The Act of Secrecy initiated by the Australian Wizarding Government was much friendlier than the one in Britain. As long as there were no overt, public actions, a witch or wizard could use discretion in revealing their natural talents to whomever they wished. He had not told the Grangers of the full extent of his capabilities, but he was as honest as possible; they had retained their personalities even after Hermione's memory charm, and both were still honest, trustworthy people. As such, he now had greater freedom to work to cure the holes in their minds; having been upfront from the start, they didn't mind that sometimes he brought over strange tasting concoctions, as long as he also brought along samples of the beer he brewed in his spare time.

Severus had spent the last few months working with Phineas, who just happened to have a frame in his living room. He'd taken it from the Headmaster's sitting room, and the old man had been the link between he and Hermione's present self. She shared her theories and research about her parent's memories with Black, who in turn passed them to Severus. Between them, the two had managed to make several breakthroughs. The couple were now absolutely certain that they were suffering from memory loss, and one particular potion had managed to begin the retrieval of the emotions from their past. They remembered an overwhelming sense of love, though neither could work out just who that was for.

He was thankful for such an outlet, given that he was not formally practicing. That would come in time, depending on Hermione, but for now he was content.

There had been a few close calls over the months. It was unavoidable, really, although Severus would never have picked Luna Lovegood of all people to catch him walking in a village in Borneo not long after having sourced some rare plants, some of which were still dried and bottled in his lab in the large shed out the back. Something had told him not to even bother running, and indeed he hadn't. His instincts had proved correct – after going through Hermione's letters and finding the one that mentioned Borneo, he realised that the girl had not told a single soul bar his wild haired witch.

Other times had seen him Apparating away just before some old students came stumbling down one of Melbourne's laneways, arm in arm and singing before entering a pub. He had half a mind to hex the terribly out of tune singers, but he'd always had somewhat of a soft spot for Blaise Zabini, and if the young man wished to spend time with the very interesting looking Pansy Parkinson (Severus hadn't quite realised that blue hair was all the rage), then he wasn't going to bother judging.

Ronald Weasley was another story. Severus had returned to Spinner's End to quietly clear out anything left in his home before the demolition crews came through (it was being revamped into a shiny new development; his house was due to be a childcare, of all places, but the deposit into his Muggle bank account to match the basic value of the home – even if it was a pittance - from the developers was worth it) and hadn't been able to resist firing off a quiet hex when he'd caught sight of the red haired man near the Ministry offices in London. It seemed that Hermione really didn't keep in touch with him much in those days, or else surely she would have mentioned that the boy who upped and left her spent a week without bollocks.

Grinning as he entered the kitchen, Severus made a coffee and headed down to the back shed. He hadn't lied to Jean Granger – there was a particular potion that he'd been working on for a week now, and it was one of the last ones that he had left to try. There was a layer of charms components that he would need to use upon Jean and Richard drinking it, and he settled in to his work bench with a thick tome open before him to begin practicing the intricate (and admittedly rather foolish) wand waving.

As he muttered the words and worked on the precise flicks of his wrist, Severus' thoughts turned back to Hermione, as they often did. Truthfully, he was glad that he had had the time to ready himself for her. She hadn't needed to wait at all, not really; their last correspondence had been less than a week ago, and if all went well, then he would send the message that would bring her here after the dinner at the Granger's on the weekend. It would be the icing on the cake – he would be there with her to explain the danger to them to ensure that her actions were understood; Merlin knew that Hermione would never have even told them how much danger she would be in, and he was of the mind that her parents would be hurt and angered if she kept it concealed.

It was the only gift he could give her – the only thing that he could physically do to show her just how much he valued all of her help, all of her letters. They had helped him survive the worst year of his life; he hadn't even told her everything that'd happened, but he would. If he had his way, they would never stop talking. Letters weren't enough; he needed her here with him, beside him, waking with him each morning. He had no bloody idea why she seemed to think him worthy of her affections, but he wouldn't fight it – he wanted her more than anything. That she returned such desires seemed unthinkable but she was adamant in her letters that there was a place for him in her life.

And by all the gods, she already had a place in his.

He looked over at the simmering potion and checked the timer displayed on the wall. After another hour of practice, he tossed in another set of ingredients and stirred, counting the turns under his breath before pausing for a moment then changing the direction of the rod.

Again he stirred, the methodical movements grounding his heart that had begun to pound as he thought of just what on earth he would say when he saw her, his Hermione. The woman (there was no point focusing on their age difference; given his nerves, he felt like a bloody lad again and so it was far from his mind) had saved his life, yet he held no formal life debt to her.

All that he had was his own heart that was already nestled just behind her breastbone, right beside her own.

He stopped after ninety turns and set the rod carefully to the side. The tempus ticked over and over, counting down the minutes. Severus could only hope that it would bring his wants and desires to fruition: that time would now bring him Hermione, instead of continuing their distance.


	12. Chapter 12

**_A/N:_** _Oh, sorry – did you all want this to finish up straightaway? Whoops ;-) Hats off to the guest who guessed the reasoning behind the choice of Marcus! May I just pay homage to my lovely friend_ momonigirl, _who suggested Hermione's actions on the veranda in one of her reviews! Forgive any mistakes, if they appear then they are all mine from writing this chapter late at night._

 _Forgive me for the delay in review replies for Chapter 11. I shall sort that out tonight, but I thought you'd want me to edit and put this up before anything else ;-)_

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

"One whole vial each, if you please. It won't taste-"

"Oh _good lord_ Marcus, that is _foul!"_

"Yes Monica, well, I did try to mention that but you dra-"

"Lord above, mate! Bloody hell. What is in this? Cat piss?"

"Among other things- no! I was joking! Finish it, Richard. That goes for you, too, Mon."

…

"Richard? Who's Rich- oh… hang on just a moment there-"

…

"Marcus?"

"Yes, Jean?"

"What are you doing with your magic stick? I feel a bit funny…"

"Have a lie down on the couch. So your name _is_ Jean, isn't it? Jean Granger?"

"Of course it is, are you daft?"

…

Hermione eyed the bedside table with trepidation. It was coming up to a fortnight after Kingsley had told her that Severus had survived, and every day since had been spent alternating between white hot anger, disappointment and hope so acute that it was painful.

 _Why_ hadn't he told her himself? She knew the answer of course – the rational part of her mind understood that he was just doing what she herself had done; bided his time until he knew it was safe to reveal his presence. Hadn't she done just that? Avoided confessing everything about his future until being sure that he'd listen to her? This was the same, wasn't it? Except all he was doing was ensuring that she would write to his past self. He couldn't very well show up after the first or second letter considering that she might have then neglected to write as much as she had.

Hermione was already quite aware of just how much of a distraction Severus Snape could be. Having him here with her would have made everything far too complicated to ensure that it all went perfectly. It was such a delicate balance; she was glad that he'd had the self control to keep everything running smoothly, but there was still that tiny little niggling feeling that she didn't _want_ him to be so reasonable. It would have been nice if he might have tried to see her, if only so she could just… _know._

The drawer had opened and closed five minutes ago. She had stopped in at her rooms to use the bathroom on a short break during classes and had raced into the bedroom in time to watch it sliding shut. In a moment of weakness, she'd stopped the spell that charmed the letters to come to wherever she was – it wasn't like she was receiving any, after all, and so the small unassuming bedside table quickly became the large, stampeding elephant in the room

Now she sat on the edge of the bed, twisting the material of her school robes between shaking fingers. The curtains covering Phineas' portrait had been closed days ago and for once, she had no wish to converse with the man – he'd said that he would explain everything in time, but he was firm about having no remorse for being aware of Severus' current activities. At first, it had hurt so deeply that she'd seriously thought about finding some turpentine. He'd been a father figure for a while – old, snarky, painting that he was – and she had felt betrayed by his steady acceptance of her anger. There was no one at all for her to tell now that she had a deep desire to simply send the letter back.

But she didn't, of course.

It only took another minute (or however long it took to finish off three Tim Tams that'd been kept on stasis since her last trip to check on her parents) to wrench open the drawer and grab the torn off piece of paper. God, she'd missed his small, spidery script; for a long moment, she stared at the front where he'd simply written: _Hermione._

If she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough, she could almost imagine his voice of silk saying her name, persuading her to turn the paper over and read the other side. She savoured it and took her time, until the curiosity became too much.

 _/_

 _I did not come to you, even though I said that I would. Forgive me. You were a friend to me when I had none; I hope that you still will be._

 _I am here now. There has been something keeping me from you, a small project, of sorts. Would you like to see it?_

-At this, she gasped and pressed her lips together firmly to hide a squeak of delight, then bent her head to continue reading.

/

 _There are, at present, two people sitting in their living room who are very interested in seeing you again._

 _Come, Hermione. There is much to say._

 _Severus._

 _/_

"Oh my… oh good heavens – you terrible, sweet, wonderful man. Oh my _god!_ "

Hermione clutched the letter to her chest then cast a Tempus while focusing on Australia – wherever he was, whichever state, it was sometime on Saturday. In Scotland, she was almost done with classes for Friday – Charms was next, and Flitwick was nothing these days if not a bit of a pushover so…

It didn't matter, she reasoned with herself. She could take her study gear… Muttering, she went through what she recalled of her planner next week: Monday could be missed, Tuesday too… With the time difference, she could even stay longer and still be back in time for Thursday afternoon's meeting with Vector… Yes!

She scanned the letter one last time, and then took off at a run for the Headmistress' office.

…

Barwon Heads, Victoria, was just where her parents always should have been. She knew that they'd rented a terrace house in Sydney for at least a weekend when she'd visited – it was a rookie mistake that Hermione had believed that they had _lived_ there. It was almost embarrassing, really. Had they gone for a visit and decided that the big smoke wasn't for them? Had they made new friends to complement their new life and decided to drive across the state borders for a visit? Or had her mother presented yet another one of her publications to standing ovations in a conference room in the hotel down the street?

She might never know. It no longer bothered her.

But _this –_ yes, this was what they'd seen on the television. This was what they'd talked about in dreamlike voices, even before she'd cast the memory charm. The wind whipped around her, caressing her bare shoulders as she removed her sunglasses and took in the view of the long jetty and the waves breaking closer to shore. The town was sleepy and quiet, and most were dressed like her – jeans or cropped pants with singlets, their exposed skin a blank canvas for the sun to fill in. Still, she had tucked a cardigan into her bag; she wondered if the book was right about the weather fluctuating constantly. Everything was a mix of blue water and white sun, golden sands and asphalt roads that children further away danced across on tip toes to avoid putting their feet flat on the heated surface.

She didn't have a clue where in the town she was supposed to go, but Severus had been adamant that she take her time and come on her own terms:

 _Just come, Hermione. When you do, I will find you._

Her mouth was dry, but not from the sea breeze. Severus had not left any solid instructions – it was like he'd known that she would need time to prepare herself, time that wasn't spent in line for the International Floos, or waiting to be processed by the Wizarding Customs when she arrived in Australia. Surprisingly, there'd been one wizard and one uniformed Muggle who'd worked in tandem and checked her papers and incoming arrival forms before waving her past an elderly witch who scanned her with her wand, then through a machine that looked like a metal scanner, but picked up on not only her belt buckle but the faint traces of dark magic that clung to her scars, too. Impressive. It was tempting to make notes for Kingsley; too tempting, in fact, so she got out her pen and paper while waiting for a taxi into the city.

Once Minerva had given her permission (though the young witch had elected not to share how Severus fitted into her parent's miraculous recovery), Hermione had packed a bag immediately and bypassed London entirely by choosing to Apparate into Dublin and taking the first Floo journey through an unfamiliar fireplace. From there, she'd had to stop over in Kuala Lumpur where she'd stumbled about in sticky, humid heat before showering and heading back to continue her journey to Melbourne. It was more taxing than she had ever assumed it would be; the almost immediate changing of the time zones was like a slap to the face, instead of those planes years ago where there had been hours to sleep in an uncomfortable position before emerging bleary eyed but excited.

Instead, she'd arrived in Melbourne covered in soot, grime and sweat. Secure in her knowledge that Severus had her parents safe and well – _safe and well! Severus had her parents, Jean and Richard, safe and well!_ – she had checked into a small hotel where the witch at the front counter had given her an eyeful of intricate tattoos and piercings before directing her to a room where she'd stood for half an hour under a hot, heavenly stream of water. She slept like a log, and then showered again. The witch at reception organised a car, and she'd thrown her beaded bag into the passenger seat before starting up the cheap white Toyota sedan.

That same '95 Camry was parked at the kerb with the keychain dangling from her index finger. She stood on the end of the solid wood of the jetty, her left hand resting on the plank that formed a barrier between her body and the wide expanse of water ahead. The white paint was peeling, and it tickled the skin of her palm.

Turning around to face the shore, Hermione let her head fall back so the sun shone straight on her face, as if its rays could give her courage.

Perhaps they did, for when she let it fall back again and saw two distant figures waving madly on the shore with a tall, black haired man in a green t-shirt and grey jeans standing a ways apart with his gaze fixed firmly on his feet, she shouted with joy. The only sounds that followed were the thumps and stomps of her feet as they propelled her back along the jetty at a sprint.

But not for long.

"Mum! _Mum! Dad!"_

Her undignified shriek sent the seagulls on the jetty flying away with indignant squawks, but she barely even noticed. All she could see was her mother jumping up and down and her father attempting to surreptitiously wipe his eyes. It was almost too much to have the man she had been dreaming of standing behind them, too. Standing awkwardly, scuffing his feet on the weeds, his longer hair tied back and hands in his pockets. Severus was… good lord, she couldn't even _think_ about the fact that he was _here!_ He was here – _here!_ Right in front of her, she could _see_ him with her very own eyes … oh sod it, yes she bloody well would think about it!

"Severus! _Severus!"_

His head whipped up – from here, she couldn't even see that there was just a small hint of a smile on his face, though his eyes were gleaming in the bright sunlight. She hurtled faster still, coming closer and closer until-

"Mum! Oh god, mum!"

Hermione crashed into Jean and Richard, who would've gone flying to the sandy earth if Severus hadn't quickly reached his arms out behind them to steady the couple.

"Mum, mum, mum, mum – dad!" She threw her arms around them, making sure to connect her fingers with Severus' steadying ones; she might have been braver, but school Houses didn't matter anymore, and so she burrowed her face into her mother's shaking chest and clutched onto his fingers, refusing to gentle her grasp until she felt his thumbs – so cool and smooth and steady - moving over her knuckles. It was only then, with his subtle reassurance, that she allowed him to remove his hands and step back to give her parents space to enfold her in the tiny space between their bodies, where she had wanted to be for far, far too long.

"I've missed you mum, dad. I'm so _sorry-"_

"No apologies, Hermione," Richard mumbled thickly, his chin moving over her hair as he shook his head. "My beautiful, _brave, strong_ girl! Of course I might try to never let you outside of our sight again – _how could you be so foolish! –_ but god, Hermione, my little girl… Bloody hell, I said I wasn't going to cry-"

"Oh do shut up Richard, we'll tell her how we'll lock her up and give her the key later. My sweet Hermione… oh darling, I've missed you – even before Severus helped us, I _knew_ that I missed you! My poor girl, oh, all of the things that you've done! Come on, come on, let's go home – leave the car here for now, Severus will take us - yes, yes he knows how to do all of that, such a clever man, we don't even get nauseas anymore! Come on sweetheart, take his hand - no need to break his fingers Hermione, be gentle now! Off we go…"

…

The kettle on the gas stove whistled, demanding attention. The cups were already out on the counter, and Severus spooned the loose leaf tea into the pot. Carefully, he poured in the boiling water then leant against the counter to let it steep. The sounds coming from the living room were much quieter now, mostly hushed voices, but still he had sought out an escape; being _here_ with Hermione was wonderful, and yet despite her obvious glances his way and how she had tried to inch closer to him on the couch, he was determined to ensure that she spend her time with her parents first.

They were friends; that much they had admitted to Jean and Richard, but anything beyond that would have to wait. Now, in the cold light of day, he knew that though he loved the young woman (oh Merlin, how he loved her – wild, knotted chestnut hair that was longer than ever, curling past her waist, just begging for him to tug on a strand and watch it bounce, with animated eyes that radiated intelligence and a mouth that spoke so sweetly but at the same time so surely, slightly sunburnt shoulders that called to his fingers to curl into the soft skin there before he leaned down to claim her mouth…) but now was not the time.

Still - she was here.

Even if she didn't return his feelings, his love, he found that he didn't quite care. It was enough to love her in this safe, languid way; it was comfortable, it was _different._ He _enjoyed_ it. There was no pressure in it, no expectations.

Everything had changed so much in the past year that he couldn't even bring himself to even begin to feel possessive, to want to mark her as his own, obsess over her – he was secure within himself now, and he was so close to happiness that the love of this good woman would perfect it, though not complete it.

Oh, he was still enough of a masochist to stay around if she didn't want or desire him; he knew he couldn't quit her, but it felt ... healthy. And heathy was very, very good, if not wholly foreign.

Besides, they had all the time in the world.

"Severus? Is the tea ready?" Richard stopped in the doorway of the kitchen then continued in further to grab the tray. "Here, I'll take it in. Why don't you go in ahead of me. Hermione's told us all she can. I think we'd better hear it all from you now, don't you reckon?"

He wiped a hand over his mouth and sighed. That old familiar feeling of nerves building in his stomach intensified. "Yes; I think you should."

Upon entering the living room, he found Jean and Hermione seated together on the couch. Hermione was tucked into her mother's side, but still she summoned a wide, welcoming smile to him and straightened up when he sat down on the white recliner beside them.

"Hello," she whispered, for the thousandth time that day. His studiously composed expression of the old Professor broke for a moment when his mouth twitched with a short grin.

"Hello, Hermione."

She beamed, and he froze. She'd been so captivating all damn day – her hands waving around in the air to punctuate her points, and her voice rising and dropping depending on the subject. Gods above, that voice… so low and smooth, it drizzled over his body like a disillusionment charm until he felt like he would stay moulded to the living room in one way or another just to hear her speak. Now, she smiled shyly, ducking her head.

 _Oh gods, let me have her and keep her…_

Richard entered, setting the tray on the coffee table before them then sank into the wicker chair opposite the couch and said, "Now, Severus. I think it's time we got to the bottom of this, mate. We know who you were at Hogwarts, and we know everything that you've done since the – sorry – death of the old Headmaster. Hermione's filled us in on everything. And there's something that I would like to say."

Severus bent his head, allowing his hair to fall like curtains to cover his face. "Of course. I understand." He'd come prepared for this, for their rejection. He'd done terrible things, after all.

Richard drew in a deep breath and shared a look with Jean, one of those looks between couples that spoke some secret, intimate language that he so hoped he might one day be able to partake of himself. Jean nodded and Severus braced himself.

"I'd like to thank you, Severus."

 _"_ _What?"_ Severus blurted out, spluttering for a moment before he regained his composure. "Whatever for?"

"Are you _daft,_ Severus?" Hermione reached over to squeeze his knee for a short second, her fingers warm on his denim clad skin. "After all that you've done for my parents, for _me!_ We should thank you every day for the rest of our lives."

Ignoring the faint twist of hope in his chest at the last part of her sentence, Severus rolled his shoulders and spread his hands. "Anyone else would have done-"

"Bollocks," Jean hurled back, and he blinked owlishly. "You name me one man who would protect our daughter the way that you have, and then come all of the way down here and _fix_ us! Don't think that Richard and I have forgotten all of those months where you were only the neighbour called Marcus, and you brought around your funny drinks every now and then. You didn't have a job, you didn't have much of a social life – you spent all of your time working for _us._ You deserve to be thanked. We can never, ever begin to even explain how much all of your time and hard work has meant to us, to our family, but I can tell you now – don't you _ever_ tell me that someone else would have done the same as you! There is _no one_ on this earth who would have made such a steadfast, compassionate effort the way that you have. No ifs, no buts; thank you, Severus. From the bottom of my heart."

He knew that he had two choices: to ignore their thanks and protest some more, ensuring that he could maintain a distance from the couple that he'd grown to almost like. Or, he could lean forward and reach for Hermione's hand, take it in his own, and bow his head and accept their words. He dithered for a moment, caught on the ledge, his heart stuttering with nerves, but in the end, finally –

Hermione's palm was warm and slightly damp. Her fingers, shorter than his and delicate, oh so delicate, curved over his two larger hands and gripped on for dear life. It wasn't to Jean or Richard that he looked; his eyes so grey they were almost black instead moved to meet with a deep caramel pair that swum with unshed tears. She smiled again, her lower lip caught between her teeth to stop it from trembling. Her cheeks were flushed, and he felt a welcome burn in his chest as he looked at her, his Hermione.

Clearing his throat, unable to look away from her, he managed to keep his head long enough to say, "You are very welcome. I would do it over and over again."

…

He sat out on the front veranda much later, listening to the insects buzzing amidst the faint clatter of pots and pans as the dishes washed themselves in the kitchen sink inside the house. Honestly, he'd given up before tonight, but the suffocating emotional atmosphere in the house meant that the street lights were joined by the dull red that lit each time he put the cigarette to his lips.

The smoke curled into the night sky, a faint grey against the velvet black. Amusing himself, he muttered one of Albus' old charms and listened as Hermione – really, she should learn one day that it was impossible to sneak up on him – giggled softly from the doorway behind him when the smoke formed into silvery, transparent frogs that launched themselves off into the night. The sound slid into his heart.

"Hello."

He inclined his head to the side, taking a long drag then blew out another frog. "Hello."

Her feet padded almost silently over to where he sat on the stoop between surface and ground. He stared outwards at the tiny creatures that congregated around the street lights as she folded herself down and sat beside him. He could feel the warmth of her skin, calling and coaxing. Unable to ignore it, he adjusted his bent legs until his right thigh only just touched her left. When she didn't move away, the next exhalation of smoke was layered with relief and he closed his eyes, savouring the moment. Even if she didn't want anything more, this… this would last him. This moment, right now.

He flinched when she put a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and then plucked the cigarette out from between his fingers. Stunned, he tracked the glowing red through the air until it blared as she drew in, then dulled again as a dainty little frog escaped her mouth. He waited for her cough but all she did was screw her little nose up and press her lips together.

"Been practicing, have you?"

Hermione chuckled and nodded. "I can't stand them, myself. But all I could remember was you forbidding me one the last time we met, so I had planned a grand gesture."

"This was your grand gesture?"

"Not really," she admitted. "But at least I had you speechless for a little while."

Stealing a glimpse at her from the corner of his eye – he'd never get over how soft she looked now, after her almost gaunt body during those months on the run; she was fleshy, now, and _real_ – Severus allowed a small grin to escape. It was easy enough, given how his heart was racing.

"That was not a difficult feat, given the circumstances." Dropping his guard slightly, he waved a vague hand between the two of them in explanation.

She handed the cigarette back. "I confess that I wanted to do something that would make you see me as… older, I guess. Not a child."

"Unnecessary," he returned simply, leaving the implications of the word unsaid. It was the truth; he was all too aware of how much of a woman she was. She was all legs, hips and curves, the straight, slim lines of her younger body now left for something that was just a little less than what Botticelli himself would covet. The sea air moved between them, picking up a few errant curls from her hair and splaying them across his back where they tickled the skin under his shirt.

He stubbed out his smoke and vanished it while he waited for her to speak. Instinctively he knew that she had prepared for this moment, and perhaps he had earned it. He looked at her again and met her pensive gaze. Gratified when the pupils in the caramel waters dilated, he turned back when she slowly bent to rest her head on his shoulder, robbing his mouth and throat of moisture. _So close._

She breathed in deeply then blew the air out, and her tense frame sagged. "I was very hurt, you know – because you didn't tell me."

"Tell you about what?"

"You weren't _honest_ with me. You could have told me that you survived!" She paused, and he counted the seconds until she released the lower lip that he knew she'd been biting down on. "I just wanted to know. _Just_ to know."

"You know why I didn't say anything, Miss-"

"Don't do that. Don't hide behind social graces," she chided, slinging the arrow loose and letting it fly straight into its target. "You know what my name is. Use it."

"As you wish," he acceded readily, eagerly. "Still – you know why I couldn't. You yourself chose to… omit certain things. And-" he held up a hand to stave off her protest, "- I understand why. It does not make it any less difficult, but I do understand."

He wondered if the arm that was closest to him, her left, was the scarred one, or was it her right? It was another question for another evening.

Sighing, Hermione said slowly, "You're right, of course. But it doesn't change how much it _hurt_ to hear it from Kingsley, of all people. Kingsley! Did you know that I fainted?"

Unbidden, a bark of laughter came out of his throat and he covered his mouth to try and discourage a chuckle. "Did you now?"

"I did," she confirmed primly. "Right onto the floor of an old classroom."

"Was there no-one to break your fall?" Somehow the question seemed important.

"Not a soul. You owe me new dress robes. My old ones are ruined beyond magical repairs." She elbowed him in the ribs.

"Rather presumptuous, don't you think?"

He regretted the words instantly when her body became stiff again and she straightened. His shoulder felt heavier without the weight of her head than it did with it. Grimacing, he turned to face her fully but she frowned and spoke before he could even get a word in.

"You're my best friend, Severus Snape," she said bluntly, leaving him flummoxed and searching for words. She prodded his chest with an index finger and he stared at it dumbly when it connected with its destination then retreated. "You _are._ And I know you."

"Hermione, we've barely spoken to each other outside of the confines of a teacher-student relationship…"

"Oh, don't give me that. Whatever 'teacher-student relationship' we had was constructed by the persona that you had to don every morning to keep us all away. And while I do _know_ that you find me a _sufferable_ know-it-all, I for one have spoken with you for almost a year. I have had conversations with you in the dead of night and when dawn breaks. I have written to you at my worst, and read your letters at my best. So don't you even begin to think that we don't have a leg to stand on!"

"Well, you have one thing right, I suppose," he granted her, revelling in the sight of the smile that began to stretch over her lips.

She arched one thin eyebrow, an expression that mimicked his own so well that he found his mind wandering to a place where Hermione took on other things of his; wearing his button down shirts and nothing else, reading in _his_ favourite chair, stealing sips of his whiskey, siphoning books out of his grip, washing her body with smooth soaps that he had made with his own hands. He coughed to cover the strange new feeling of thickness at the back of his throat.

"And what is that?"

"You _are_ sufferable." There. He'd said it. Sort of.

"I've known that for almost a year, Severus," she said softly. "I rather thought you might say that I was correct about you… you and I."

"You'll have to be more specific, Hermione," he said, eyes glittering in the darkness. "Despite popular belief, I am not a complete mind reader."

She giggled again and moved to mirror his position until they were both sitting on the edge of the veranda facing each other, one each with a leg bent at the knee and the other extended out onto the cement of the walkway to the front gate. He watched as she blatantly let her eyes travel over his face, lingering on his forehead, his nose, his mouth. Swallowing nervously, he fought the urge to retreat behind his hair. It was longer now and hung limply enough still that he could do it, but some unknown desire pushed him to gather it up and tie it back, revealing his face to her examining gaze.

Finally, she looked right at him with a faint blush and said, "You look good, Severus. You look happy. Healthy."

"As do you. But don't distract me," he said, his tone light and (could it be? Good heavens) teasing.

She flushed again, the rose pink colour spreading down beneath the neckline of her teal singlet. "Well I just thought… I thought you'd think that we _do_ have a leg to stand on."

He hummed thoughtfully, and when she daringly reached out and covered his hands with hers, he made no attempt to dislodge her. How he had _craved_ this: to touch her, to know her, this beautiful woman at his side who he wished one day would be _by_ his side. Yet he did not speak, for fear of ruining this moment of peace. Instead, he squeezed her hands and turned them to allow his fingers to unhurriedly slide between the gaps until their hands were linked. He smiled when a soft intake of breath alerted him to Hermione's own eyes that were trained on the same sight as his.

"I would like to…" he began awkwardly, searching for courage and finding none yet ploughing on ahead all the same. "I would like to see you again. Alone. Here… or just down the street. In my house. That blue one over there-"

"I know where it is," she cut in, and he clearly heard the smile in her voice. "Mum told me."

"Oh? Sharing secrets, now?"

"Oh no, not at all! She merely said that if I allowed such a man to slip through my fingers-" Hermione tightened her grasp on his hands and his heart, "- then I would be a witless woman."

"Indeed?"

"Quite."

"How…" _Almost there, almost there!_ "How long can you stay?"

"Another three nights. And… and I want to see you, too. Every day until I go. Will you let me, Severus? As your friend and…"

"And?" Gods, he could barely _think_ , he was focusing so hard on her mouth that was forming words.

"And… anything. Anything at all. There are so many things I want to tell you, so many things that I _need_ to say but not here." She tilted her head to the house.

He was gripped by the panic of not knowing what to say, of how to appropriately verbalise that he wanted her with him _always,_ that three nights would never be enough. But then he remembered how _freeing_ it felt to love her like this, where he gave and understood somewhere within his bones that there was a real possibility of it being reciprocated. And so he bowed his head and stood, extending a hand to pull her to her feet with him.

He bundled up a bag of caution and tossed it resolutely into the wind. She looked up at him nervously, the sight only endearing her further to him, and he watched her gasp quietly when his head descended to place the lightest of kisses onto her mouth. The borderline polite, feather light touch of his lips to hers was intoxicating even though he could only just taste her, yet he stayed there just long enough to feel the gentle pressure of her returning it – _oh gods, she kissed me,_ she _kissed_ me – before he pulled away and grazed the back of his hand down her cheek.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight, Severus. Until tomorrow?"

From the way she shook her head minutely, she hadn't intended it to come out as a question, but he drank in her shyness and nodded. Leaving before her lips tempted him again, he turned on his heel and strode to the gate. Once on the other side, he gestured for her to go inside, and only when her figure disappeared after a giddy wave his way did he stuff his hands into his pockets and stroll back to his home.

The effort not to bellow out a belly shaking laugh of joy was truly Herculean.


	13. Chapter 13

_Fluff, fluff, fluff… just a short one for today as I have a mountain of things to get done this week. Not long to go 'til the end, now. Excuse any typos – they are a product of rushing to get this to you all!_

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

Hermione slipped on the one dress she'd brought with her to Australia and surveyed her reflection in the mirror, hands on her hips as she turned to the right then to the left.

It was no use. No matter how she jutted out a hip, or held her hands behind her back so her breasts became more pronounced, she felt woefully inadequate. The deep blue coloured sundress seemed far too plain for the man she was meeting for dinner, and she'd tried a multitude of combinations, from a hat and a white tee-shirt underneath it like the modern looking women she'd seen in Melbourne that she dismissed as soon as she looked at the final product, followed by a demure cream cardigan that ended at her elbows. Nothing seemed to work.

 _It's_ just _Severus,_ she reminded herself. _He probably doesn't even think that this is anything other than a dinner between friends. So something casual should be perfect… it's a hot day, after all. But…_ he _kissed_ me!

And that thought, naturally, sent her right back into the tizz she'd been in before until she growled at the nervous young woman in the mirror and unceremoniously shoved her feet into a brown pair of sandals.

 _Sod it. He's seen me wearing one of dad's old shirts, then when I hadn't bathed in weeks. He knows what I bloody well look like._

With a huff, she yanked her hair out of the tie that had been attempting to restrain it, and fluffed it out until it returned to its normal sprawling state. The makeup was scrubbed off with a damp cloth, and she nodded to herself when her face was bare save for a small amount of mascara. Severus didn't seem like a man who preferred women with done up faces… not that she really knew what he liked in a woman, or _on_ a woman, but he liked her well enough, didn't he? As a friend, at least… But did he like her as a man could like a woman? It was enough to drive her mad, and she scowled at her reflection.

"Shut up, Granger," she said sternly into the air. "He liked you enough to kiss you and invite you to dinner, so shut up and get on with it." Her feminist sensibilities were almost insulted by how much sway she was giving _his_ desires and _his_ opinions, but for Merlin's sake, she already knew that she would devour him on sight if she could. What she wasn't sure about were his feelings.

On a whim, she fumbled around under the dress and slid off her bra before tossing it onto the bed and marching out of the room. She had no intentions, no ulterior motives – it felt far too early for… well, anything really (or did it? _No, I'd best nip that in the bud for now)_ , but if she was going in swinging, then she was going to be damn well comfortable.

She edged out of the living area before her parents could pin her down, though her father managed to shove a bottle of cold wine into her hands all the same, making her cringe and groan in mortification. To make matters even more ridiculous, her mother called out a laughing, "Snag him quick before I set every woman I know onto him, dear! Can't have a man like that getting away!"

Could it get any worse? Weren't her parents supposed to disapprove of her going on a date? And with a man just ten years younger than her own dad? Instead it was as if they'd wrapped her up with a bow on it and herded out her the door!

For a pair of dentists, they hadn't even commented on the man's teeth, nor his nicotine habit. He'd mentioned he had given up for the most part, but they wouldn't have missed how his index and second finger still often mimicked the action of holding a cigarette, particularly when he was talking. She wasn't about to admit that she found such a habit terribly _sexy_ ; not the actual smoking, for she could do without something covering up what his mouth truly tasted like, but the long, delicate fingers cementing his points and curving through the air when he was feeling particularly passionate about a subject.

At least he'd done the ground work for her – Jean and Richard were already mooning over the man almost as much as she was; at least she wouldn't have to grovel and beg for them to accept him. It wouldn't do to be late for a date because she'd had to restrain her parents, after all.

 _Oh good lord, it's a date and I'm not wearing a bra! No. Get over it. Keep walking!_

Moving through the front gate and closing it with more force than necessary, Hermione eyed the blue house down the street with trepidation. It was a good thing her hands were occupied with holding the wine, or she would have been wringing them.

Now that she was here, on her way to his house – _the very alive Severus Snape's home! –_ she felt unsure and anxious. The plethora of 'what ifs' running through her mind as she slowly set one foot in front of the other didn't help; she was equally terrified of all of this turning out to just be an act of friendship, or the very opposite.

She wasn't sure if she loved him, but then, Hermione had never been in love. Severus had the upper hand there, with more life experience under his belt compared to her sheltered upbringing and comparatively short years of tumultuousness. She didn't really want to think about that; whatever his history, it didn't matter in the here and now.

So did she love him?

Perhaps.

The question would need to be left unanswered; she was a rational thinker, and revelled in the chance to finally have the time to test her theory that she was head over heels for Severus Snape.

The thought had her heart racing as she began the walk down the street in earnest. The sun was still in the sky, though it was nearing seven o'clock; the long days of the Australian summer were only just beginning. As she walked along the sidewalk, children were still playing cricket at the end of the street that was closer to the jetty, and the slap of their rubber slip on shoes echoed in the air. It was hot, though the sea breeze was beginning to make itself known; she thought of going back home for the cardigan, then decided she'd rather burrow into one of his soft looking jumpers instead. Now smiling like the cat lapping up a bowl full of cream, Hermione increased her pace until she stood in front of the modestly sized blue weatherboard home.

There wasn't any sign of Severus, but when she craned her neck to have a little peek down the side of the house, she could see lights on down the back where the kitchen must be. Indulging in a deep breath in through her nose at the floral scents permeating the air, she pushed open the fence between the pickets and stepped inside the front garden.

 _This must be where he's been spending some of his free time._ The garden was beautiful; hedges backed up against the white fence in a thick, straight line, trimmed to stand just a little lower than the pointed tops of the pickets. Another step forward revealed a neat row of just planted roses, some white and others a light, dusty pink. The mulch around them still smelt fresh and she was struck by an overwhelmingly pleasurable thought: had he been readying this garden for _them_ to enjoy together? The evidence seemed to point towards a yes; there was a wooden bench on the front veranda beside the white wooden door, with two comfortable looking seat cushions. The rest of the grass had the look of being mowed by machine, not by wand, as it was charmingly uneven in some areas.

It was a place where she could almost see the echoes of children playing; small, tiny feet running over the grass, long black curly heads of hair whipping around the corner to continue running down the side to reach the back.

She put a hand on her stomach, suddenly breathless with the desire of having _his_ child in her belly, this man who knew all of her heart through the letters she'd written. She wanted it; she wanted _all_ of it, the house, the man, the children.

It was a sobering wish, and left her quickly. Not because of a natural abatement, but because she just might send Severus running to the hills. It was enough to know that it was there, gently teasing the back of her mind with the knowledge of a life that could hold such perfect symmetry. It was a life deeply wanted; Hermione wondered why she'd been so cautious in the first instance, because everything felt concise here in his garden. _I want him!_

She straightened, and let her hand fall back to her side before stepping onto the veranda and rapping her knuckles on the door. It opened on its own, naturally as if it were unlocked rather than by magic, and a deserted hallway met her gaze. The wooden floorboards seemed to go on forever, dissecting the house in one straight line.

Placing one foot on the threshold, she called out a hesitant, "Severus?"

A muffled sound of surprise reached her ears from the end of the house, accompanied by what sounded like falling cutlery. She was puzzled until she realised that there had been a lack of that tingling, familiar feeling of wards sliding over her skin. He must have released them for her, long enough ago that her presence now was unexpected.

 _Well, good. No harm in admitting that I'm eager. Oh good lord, Hermione, you're thinking like a hormonal teenager! You are one, but he doesn't have to know that! Stop, stop, put a lid on it before you go into the same room as the most astute wizard alive today._

"You're early!" his deeper voice called from the kitchen, and then added quickly, "It's open!"

"Yes, I gathered that!" she replied, letting the smirk fall into her tone. Even from the front door, she heard the ghost of a chuckle.

The change in Hermione was sudden. No longer bothered by nerves and vacillating conclusions, she moved inside and closed the front door, pushing on it to make sure that the latch caught. Worry pooling in her stomach was replaced by giddy excitement, and she couldn't hold onto the wine carefully enough lest it fall out of her grip from sheer anticipation.

From her curious peeks, she ascertained that the first room off to the left was a bedroom given the door was firmly closed, and the one opposite an office. A quick look showed a desk in front of the window with a Muggle computer on it. Further down, she passed another bedroom with a cosy bathroom across from it. Allowing herself one silent squeal to push the rest of the nerves out, she shut her eyes when she neared the end of the hallway and mimed a silent on the spot run, knowing she had a grin from ear to ear because she was _this_ close to seeing –

"Ten points for such an _inventive_ use of the hallway," Severus drawled, and her eyes snapped open to see him leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and a languid, sensual, and entirely _male_ smile playing on his lips.

"Oh – er – well, ah, thank you?" she stammered, and held up the bottle of wine, plastering a smile on her face to try and hide two chief feelings: embarrassment, and mouth-drying desire. He looked good – tremendously good. The same grey jeans as yesterday fit him well enough to give her a hint of his long, slim legs, and the rolled up sleeves of his black button down shirt revealed lean yet muscled forearms that flexed automatically under her scrutiny. When she raised her head to look directly at him, taking in the way he'd tied his hair back, she flushed at how his own gaze was running over her form.

Eventually, she shrugged and gestured with the wine again while saying, "I brought a salad."

He pushed himself away from the wall and eyed the bottle. "A fruit salad?"

"Mostly grapes," she grinned, glad he'd caught on. "Fermented grapes."

"Which you've only just been able to buy legally," he commented wryly, making a laugh catch in her throat.

Her face fell at the reminder of her age, and what had seemed like a disparaging comment. One look at his scrunched up scowl, however, and Hermione was reminded of just how often the wizard before her suffered from shoving his dragon hide booted foot into his mouth. The man was a package, after all, and he had always said that he wasn't charming. Her courage returned tenfold, armed with determination to rise to the challenge and bag herself this snarky, wonderful, dour man for good.

"Well," she said breezily, "you look good." She looked pointedly at his body, still greyhound slim but healthier now, with badly needed extra bodyweight for her to hold onto. Or someone to hold onto… but preferably her. "Relaxed living has taken years off of you."

His eyes softened slightly, but it was only her answering peal of laughter after he quipped, "I'm as nervous as a bloody sixteen year old again, so at least I've got one thing going for me," that had him offering her a tentative, crooked grin.

…

On the second night, he brought the basic summertime dinner to the back veranda and waved his hand with a spell to repel any insects from getting at the salad, fresh crusty bread rolls and leftover roast chicken. He was glad that Hermione was on time and not early tonight; there were no witnesses to how his hand shook while casting, or how he Transfigured a mirror out of one of the melamine plates just to look at his shirt for the third time that evening.

Gods, he was a pathetic sod, but he couldn't help it! If anyone had told him that nineteen ninety nine would find Severus Snape taking an hour trying to decide if Hermione Granger might like him in crimson or navy (he chose crimson in the end), he'd examine them for mental spell damage. He _still_ had to restrain his own wand from a self-diagnostic spell of the same vein. But what had she said last night?

He paused in front of the fridge, trying to think of the exact words. It wasn't often that he had problems recalling speech, but he'd sat next to her on the lounge flummoxed when she'd so artfully shot down a hesitant objection of his to whatever it was that they were doing. Ah, that was it –

"Do you know what I think?" she'd said, turning to face him better and reaching out to place a soft hand on his forearm. His swallow must have been audible, because her cheeks coloured in a becoming flush that spread all the way down to her sundress covered chest. He nodded, wanting to hear her speak more than anything, because surely there was no chance that this beautiful creature would have really thought about being with _him_.

She proved him wrong.

Flipping her sprawling hair over one shoulder in an unconscious gesture of habit, she said, "You used to _choose_ to be that man – that man that you think isn't suitable for me. Every day you put on that mask, and you crafted your insults because you _had_ to. You're not that man, just as I'm not the first year that was desperate for your approval and attention, nor the sixth year that didn't believe in you."

"And what if you are wrong?" he pressed, uncomfortable with the way she was appointing him as the _good guy._ She opened her mouth to protest, her thin brows furrowing, and he barely registered his thumb moving to smooth out the new lines that appeared on her forehead. The attractive blush spread again and, despite his caution, he watched as his hand moved on its own to settle on her shoulder, that treacherous thumb moving in circles on the bare soft as silk skin. "Sorry," he muttered, eyes fixed on his hand.

She covered it with her palm and for a moment, his hands that were always cold were warm.

"Don't be sorry." Hermione smiled and shifted closer so his arm could rest on the back of the couch, keeping his hand comfortably in place. He decided that he wasn't sorry, not really, and that he might just want this for every damn night of his life.

Drawing in a breath, he shrugged. "There was more truth to the vitriol than you might think. I was… I was an angry man, and there were times when I was angry at _you,_ Hermione; and there were times when that anger was almost justified. My insults were not, but it does nothing if you forgive me for everything I've done, when I am _still_ the man who you pissed off when you ruined my robes and stole my ingredients that came out of my pay, mind you, and I'm still the sod that spent months despising you after the… the Shack in your third year. If any of that happened again, my mouth would probably _still_ run off. Don't think that you can craft me into a saint, Hermione, because I am most certainly not –"

"I _know_!" Her eyes became pleading, and he looked away. Honesty was what he'd promised, but it wasn't what was easier. "We've both of us made mistakes. But I don't want us to be those people anymore! I mean, look at all of this!" She broke off and gestured around the simple living room, bookcases on every wall with an old tellie in the corner and two brown couches, as if it were a palace. "We're about as far removed as we will ever get from Hogwarts, Severus. If we can't be who we are _now_ in this place, then… oh I don't know. My point is that you and I have both changed from our less than perfect past selves. Wasn't that the whole point to being able to write to each other? To save each other? You can't have assumed that it was all about you, surely? Because you bloody well saved me, too, Severus, and I want _this_ man, the one that you are, in my life."

His hand tightened on her shoulder, and he arched an eyebrow, retreating into safe expressions so he wouldn't gape. "Is that what you truly think?" he hedged, aware that she was drawing closer but powerless to stop her. He wanted this, after all; they had a long way to go, but he wanted a beginning, a middle and a lack of ending.

"I do," she mumbled, breaking eye contact to look down at their laps. "Why else would the castle help us? And _us_ , of all people. You could've been talking with someone healthier, someone who could help you better, but instead you were saddled with _me,_ who couldn't even sleep without Phineas' portrait in the room just so I knew that someone was actually there. I should've handled our situation better, Severus, I'm s-"

Before his mind even understood the movement of his body, he was kissing her, covering her lips with his to stop the needless words that'd been pouring out. There wasn't any room for apologies, not anymore; it was a monumental waste of time.

The kiss began innocently enough – as innocent as such things can, anyhow – but the closeness of her made him bold, made him dare to rub her curls between his fingers, and pull until she was stretched across his lap. Her little sigh of pleasure spoke thirty inch essays, and he understood and offered silent thanks that she reciprocated and accepted everything that he was unconsciously offering.

Somewhere in his mind that wasn't filled with the burning image of this witch, this woman, kissing him with her eyes closed and hands that wormed under his shirt to lie flat on his skin underneath, somewhere in that place that was getting smaller by the second, he decided that this feeling… Whatever it was, love or lust or need or desire; he did not wish for it to ever leave. As their mouths moved together, he stilled her hands that were reaching ever downwards and swallowed her mewl of disappointment, breaking away with a breathy chuckle that sounded strange and foreign.

"I'd like to…" Hermione's lips were shining from their joint efforts, and the knowledge that the taste of her was so hot and secret was almost enough for Severus to tell her just to 'have at it', but somehow his backbone solidified enough for him to cradle her head on his chest instead.

"I know." He sighed and continued playing with the soft chestnut strands of her hair. Fulfilling a private fantasy, he wound one long curl around his wrist to entrap his willing flesh. "But you have questions, and I might have some answers. And I…"

"You…?" She directed the question to his chin as her fingers traced the line of his jaw. "I like this. A bit of stubble, a bit of roughness."

He forgot his intentions for a moment, and smirked. "Do you now?"

"I do," she said firmly, her tone almost covetous. His smirk became a wicked one all on its own as he thought about the thrilling, sharp feeling of being the object of Hermione Granger's intense scrutiny. "And I like your hair, too. It's longer."

Severus hummed and dipped his hands down until they were mindlessly stroking the soft, warm skin of her arms and neck. He tipped his head back until it rested on the top of the couch and let his lids close over, giving himself to her curious eyes and searching hands.

"I like how secure you seem," she continued, sparking a warmth within his heart. "You still carry the same confidence, the same ease of movement, but you don't _question_ yourself. Or is it just that you feel secure with _me?_ About _me_ – us?"

He'd been expecting the question, and he kept his eyes closed. As if to mitigate the directness of the words, Hermione placed a short kiss on his throat. Severus smiled a little, pleased at handing over the reins to the witch in his arms.

"It is," he agreed eventually, quietly. Her small intake of breath was sweet and gratifying. "I find that I no longer feel the need to doubt. Am I correct…?"

"Oh," she breathed out, and more kisses began to cover his throat, his collarbones, wherever she could reach with the neck of his shirt pushed around to suit her whims. "Yes, yes," sounded out from his lap when her full lips took time off from pressing onto him. "Don't doubt anything. Don't even think. Just … just … oh, sod it." Hermione placed her hands on his chest and pushed until he opened his eyes. "You should let me court you," she demanded, her whiskey orbs shining in the candlelight. "I want to know you better, to learn everything there is to learn about you, Severus, but I don't ever want to lose you again. I want to court you," she repeated. "I want _you._ "

When he opened his mouth, no sound came out save a croaking word that neither of them could understand. He thought for a moment, though only a tiny little fleeting moment.

Slowly, very slowly, he nodded, the small smile growing into a grin when she gasped with triumph. With a hand on her lips to stave off her ministrations for just a second, he murmured, "As you will court me, so shall I court _you._ "

…

There were many things left to say, many debates to be had, endless discussions and stories to be shared. He had to speak to her parents, and there was no room to question that he'd have to return to England soon, if only for a little while. But for now, such things could wait.

Severus opened the fridge door and, after checking their options, settled for simple cool water. He took it to the table out the back, and then settled into the chair to wait for Hermione, his Hermione, to return to his little house on the Victorian coast, where an unassuming rosewood bedside table had pride of place in the room that he hoped would be graced with her presence later on in the evening.


	14. Chapter 14

**_A/N:_** _One more to go... I know some would wish the middle of this chapter to be a bit different, but I think this works best with the overall tone of the story. Feel free to check out any of my other fics if you'd like something a bit more visual :-)_

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

The black velvet sky was heavy and settled over the two figures standing in front of the memorial, surrounding them as if it were a still lake of ink. When Hermione tilted her head back, the stars stretched out above, twinkling and shining as they were wont to do, guarding the cool stone that bore her lover's name.

Lover seemed the most apt term to be applied to Severus Snape; now, they stood with fingers linked and arms just touching while they looked at his name carved on the pillar. He certainly wasn't her _boy_ friend, and partner seemed too remote. Husband he was not, though somehow she knew that she would use that term one day. He was not a man for loving and leaving; that much was true. Not that she could even conceive of doing such things.

Were they affianced? Possibly… he'd spoken to her parents, not that he'd really said anything clearer than, "I would like to take your daughter on a last minute trip back to England with a surprisingly legal Portkey, and shall have her back in time for breakfast." Severus had been surprised when Jean and Richard had nodded eagerly, but Hermione certainly wasn't. Nevertheless, there had been a meaning beyond his words, and it seemed that everyone in the room had understood it.

Applying the term of lover implied that there had been physical actions of love between them, but such things had not yet happened. She _did_ love him, though; oh, how she loved him. At times it was as clear as a physical ache just behind her sternum, declaring its presence to the rest of her organs. At other moments, like right now, it merely stayed as if it were another layer to her mind, a layer of safety, of clarity, of yearning.

They'd had dinner on the back veranda, she in her shorts and he in a crimson shirt that made her blush and stammer because he looked utterly _divine_ in such a solid, tempting colour. He returned the favour by spending too much of the meal staring at her legs, then looking away with twin spots of pink on his cheeks each time she noticed. The portkey had been a last minute decision – he seemed almost regretful when he even brought up the subject, but nevertheless, here they stood at Hogwarts just before dawn.

She was waiting for him to answer her question on just how he'd managed to procure the old watch that had jerked them both _inside_ the grounds of the school to be enfolded by its protective wards. She'd asked it as soon as their feet had stumbled onto the ground, though Severus was still too distracted by the sight of the many names etched into the stone. More chilling were the numbers beside the student's names: 14, 13, 17… His jaw was clenching tighter with each line that he completed.

Hermione squeezed his hand, remembering the day when the monument had been erected. It wasn't long after the battle – just enough time for the bodies to have all been identified and for all of the burials - magical or, in some cases, otherwise - to be carried out. The task had been quicker than expected, thanks to Kingsley's efficient leadership, and within four weeks, a crowd had gathered on the lawns to watch as a permanent record of the war was unveiled. She remembered tears, many of which were her own, but mostly it was just the cold, lonely feeling of _loss._ Of: 'what do we do now?'

It had almost been easier on the run than being confronted with life post war, a life that was a hard slog at the best of times and a trench of grief at the worst. And then, inevitably, guilt would cloud over and she'd regret even thinking such things.

"Kingsley owes me a few favours," Severus said eventually, bringing her out of her memories. She looked down at their joined hands and registered that his thumb was stroking the skin of her palm. "The portkey and our current privacy," he added, just like he had known where her thoughts had been and wanted to take her back to the present.

Hermione smiled and hummed shortly, acknowledging his words. "Just a few?"

"Give or take." His smirk seemed to light the darkness until he looked back at the black stone and the figures that made up the statue above it. Four students arm in arm, wearing the colours of each House. They were unidentifiable and had their back to the viewers; the magical sculptors had made it so the sight was the same no matter what side someone stood on. They would always represent any and every student.

"It's a bit over the top, isn't it?" Hermione said, waving a vague hand towards the statue. But she had fond feelings about it – it had given her a laugh when she'd needed one, after all. Harry, too, had snorted and muttered something about figures of authority and optimism, while Ron had merely nodded with a thoughtful look on his face. The teachers had all been proud of it, of course – trust a school to go all out on the image of unity. The main message of the statue still hadn't been achieved, but it might one day. Not that Hermione would ever see it; she could honestly say, though, that she didn't particularly wish to. Escape couldn't come sooner.

"Minerva always had a theatrical side to her," Severus allowed, then reached out a single finger and traced over his name. The carved text immediately disappeared under his touch. He made to get his wand and tap the stone to make the names reorder themselves so there wasn't a blank spot where his full name had been, but Hermione stilled his arm.

"Don't," she said firmly, still staring at it. "Keep it. It's important."

"Why?" he asked, confusion threaded through his voice. "I'm alive, after all."

"You might've wanted us to not realise your survival, Severus, but the fact remains that we didn't even bother to look into it. Complacency doesn't cut it, not anymore. Keep it there."

"You're making me out to be something like a hero," he replied, the last word uttered like it was something foul. "That is not the sort of word that is appropriate to be used when describing me, of all people-"

"Oh well," Hermione said briskly, grinning impishly at the exasperated man beside her. "Let's agree to disagree, then."

He raised an eyebrow and blinked. "That's as good as me agreeing. If we leave it, Minerva will keep it there forever. You know what she's like, the ruddy harpy."

"Mm." She shrugged. "Well, I don't know about you, but my warming charm just isn't up to a Scottish dawn. Are we about done?" At his pensive look, she added a soft, "We can come back, you know. Anytime you like. It's not going anywhere."

"No, I suppose you're right," he murmured, turning to take her other hand. "Thank you for coming with me. I wanted to see it… to put some things to rest, so to speak."

She allowed the smile that had remained after his quip about Minerva to widen into another grin, and pushed herself up onto her toes. "S'alright. I like being here with you. Lends verisimilitude, don't you think?"

A witty or even snarky comment wouldn't have been out of place, but instead all that he gave her was a quirk of his lips and a low, "Indeed."

Slowly, as if unsure of his welcome, he bent his head to hers and she closed the distance between them, claiming his lips in a kiss that felt all too short. They'd been speaking all evening, dancing around each other, and she could still feel the buzz of anticipation that had sparked the night before. It had been far from dormant in the time waiting to see him again, and now it reared its head with a vengeance, as if it might wreak havoc if the thirst remained parched and unquenched.

It prompted her to link her hands behind his neck, pulling his body closer before they threaded through his hair. The long locks of black felt like silk, like water, and even as she shivered from the cold, still she could not bring herself to stop the movements that felt more intimate than ever before.

"It's late," he mumbled against her lips, before his mouth moved to her jaw, her ear, her neck. "Time to go, dear heart. Hold onto the watch. Can you say the spell?"

"Not at all," she almost stammered; all of her concentration was focused on his teeth that were nipping softly in a line down to her collarbones.

"Thought as much." He chuckled, an entirely male, _prideful_ sound that made her blush. "Hold on tight."

And with a jerk of the navel, they were gone.

…

He hadn't intended to take her to Hogwarts. The portkey had arrived just before she had, chucked through his newly established (and thankfully, mostly private) internationally enabled Floo by one of Kingsley's blank faced assistants. Obviously the news of his survival had been spread around in a way that Ministry workers had been instructed not to even bother to be surprised if they had contact with him, something that he appreciated to no end. It would've been difficult to receive the woman in his arms with the right amount of politeness if there'd been either an adoring or a yelling face in his fire, after all.

As it were, the inspiration struck not long after their casual meal had finished. She'd been telling him about the work of reconstructing the school, how many older students had stayed over the break and worked themselves to the bone to fix the damage. Then about how she had gotten into the habit of working harder than the rest, just to try and avoid the strange, unsettling feeling of unhappiness that she'd been left with. He thought he could even understand why – the months immediately after the battle had been hard, and not just physically.

And so the idea had come to him to put some of his demons to rest, and chip away at a few of hers as well.

Hogwarts had been pure hell while he'd been Headmaster, something that had destroyed a boyish sentimentality within him that had always thought of the old castle to be his home. Even when it had held school bullies or, in later years, insufferable mentors, it was still the one place where he could rest his head at night and feel safe. Losing the safe haven of his childhood had bloody well hurt.

But no longer.

The war was over – he'd left before knowing for sure because even though Hermione's letters had told him, it still hadn't compared to seeing it in the Daily Prophet when he'd grabbed the first edition he could find as soon as he'd been well enough to source one.

Seeing the physical evidence of it, at Hogwarts, of all places, was enough for him to finally know with complete certainty that it was finished. The castle was safe again, and though he did not harbour any particular wish to return to teaching, having that knowledge was enough to plant a seed of hopefulness within his heart.

And such matters were far from dampened by the woman in his arms that squeaked like the girl she once was upon landing on the veranda again, the outdoor setting still covered with their plates and glasses from the meal they had just left.

"Should've held on tighter," he said unrepentantly when she swayed and scowled, her soft lips pursing.

"You should've given me more warning!" Hermione shot back, not that any anger could have been worked into her tone when she was beaming.

Grinning like a lovesick fool, he said imperiously, "Consider yourself warned, madam."

Anything further that could have been said was lost in a gasp when he kissed her again, quickly, then pressed his lips to hers thrice more. With each kiss, she held onto him with more strength, until her mouth followed him the last time he made to break away.

"Are you…"

He couldn't even finish the sentence. He'd wanted to ask if she was sure, but then all of the work he'd done on himself would have been for nothing. Severus could recognise that the enthusiastic way that she was responding was _more_ than enough evidence that she did, in fact, desire him, and so when she giggled and huffed, having naturally understood where the question had been going, he cupped her face and kissed her hungrily, demandingly.

Everything he'd held back before was brought to the surface, and he couldn't get enough of her. He'd waited for _so long_! Not just while he'd been recovering then while living in Australia, but each month that she'd sent him those heartfelt, endearing letters, and he hadn't even been able to speak to her in return. The wait had driven him near mad, and all of those feelings were channelled into an intense, searing need to have her, his Hermione, and do so _now._

The thought that she would need to leave the next morning was also a driving force almost all on its own, and so when her hands moved to begin the task of unbuttoning his shirt, he didn't push them away like the night before. Rather he pressed his body against the length of hers and groaned when her hips began to undulate in that natural dance that he had craved for what felt like an age.

"Couch, couch!" she chanted breathlessly, alerting him to the fact that they were still outside, still kissing with the scent of the jasmine vine that covered the back fence filling their senses, almost drowning them in the warm, summer-like scent.

"Not the couch," he managed to say as he used the new weight on his body to leverage her own until her legs were hooked around his waist. She licked his neck, tasting the skin, and he almost lost why he'd objected in the first place. "Not the couch," he said finally, the act of remembering proving to be difficult. "Not for the…" He jerked one shoulder up, dislodging her in order to claim her mouth again. "Not for the first," another kiss, "time."

They crashed and bumped into walls and furniture on their way to the main bedroom at the front of the house, but at last he steered them into his room and turned swiftly, sitting down on the bed carefully so as not to end the kiss. She stayed astride him, her tongue slipping into his mouth like it belonged there, and with one quick spell, both of their clothes were removed.

"I wanted to do that by _hand!_ " she complained, flummoxing him with possibly the sexiest words he had heard directed at his body in his life. "You've no idea how long I've wanted to undo all of the _buttons-_ "

He raised his head and left the peak of a breast for long enough to say, "I don't wear nearly enough buttons anymore to make it worthwhile. Next time. You can even get out my old frock coat." Savouring the way the sensitive skin tightened under the laps of his tongue, he closed his mouth and suckled, grinning against her when she growled and pushed him down to lie on the bed.

With his arms full of bare flesh, he took the time to memorise her curves, and another flick of his tongue to her nipple distracted her long enough for him to flip them over. Tugging her hair out of its tie, he was helpless to restrain a groan of desire when it came tumbling down her shoulders. Like a cat seeking sunlight, he gave in to the urge to rub his cheek along the strands; the soft scratches turned his desire into something almost tangible, proving to him that-

" _Finally,_ " she whispered, and he raised his upper body up on one elbow to see her face better. "Finally," she continued, "you're _here._ God, Severus, you don't know _how long I've waited-_ "

The room was silent as he looked at her. The sound of crickets chirping came in through the half open window, and, this close to the sea, there was a tang of salt in the air. Waves crashed in the distance; it was idyllic, and he thanked the luck that brought him such a moment of peace and overall rightness.

…

When their bodies were languidly intertwined hours later and he'd summoned the energy to drape a thin blanket to cover them from the waist down, they spoke of the months apart. He didn't know what time it was, but he already knew that he'd sacrifice sleep for his last night with Hermione. Spent and sated, she was stretched across his chest, almost purring as he ran his fingers through her hair. This sensation of relaxed skin on skin was nigh on heavenly.

"If I'd known you'd survived," she mumbled sleepily, "I would've cleaned up a little. My life, I mean. I don't want to leave here now…"

It was something that troubled him also, and Severus wound a curl around his finger, grateful that he was too satisfied to even frown with his following words. "You'll do your NEWTs, and then return… if that's what you'd like?"

"Is there a place for me here – in your life?"

He chuckled and she pinched his thigh, retaliating for jostling her. "Do you even have to ask?"

"Not really," she admitted, "but it's a nice thing to hear."

"Ah. You've remembered my poetic heart, then," he drawled, tracing circles down her spine. He could spend his life like this – indulgently lying with this beautiful, lovely woman, discovering all the hidden secrets to her body and mind.

Hermione giggled and slid higher, burrowing her face into the curve of his neck. She breathed in deeply, as if drinking in his scent, and he took advantage of her hidden face to again put his nose to her hair. The smell of her pomegranate shampoo was pleasing, but layered with natural musk and traces of sex, it became something he'd bottle if he could.

"If I were a selfish man," he said slowly, "I suppose I'd beg for you to stay and make a life here. I find that I prefer it here, living quietly, not making any waves. But I don't even know if that's what you'd want. Finish your NEWTs and make your decisions, Hermione. Take your time – I'm not going anywhere."

"And if I want to come back to you afterwards?" she asked quietly.

"After getting the highest scores in the history of magical education?"

"Naturally."

"That's my witch," he said approvingly, grinning widely when she gave a tinkling laugh. After a pause to gather his thoughts, Severus said softly, "Come back to me, Hermione. That's what I want. I want you here, living quietly with me. I want everything, and I want it with you, here. The house, the sea, the…"

"Children?" she supplied shyly, pushing herself up to rest her chin on his chest. The direct eye contact was uncomfortable with such a sensitive subject, but wasn't this the deepest, most private desire that he'd harboured? Wasn't that why he'd taken such pains to fix the front and back fence, and clear out the shed full of spider webs and Merlin knew what else? It'd never been spoken out loud; such a wish was something Severus had believed had never been for him, as undeserving as he was. He looked at his witch, his woman, and decided that perhaps he _was_ deserving – _she_ was his reward.

"I want all of it," he said hoarsely. "With _you_."

"Good," she returned simply, and his flowery words were rewarded with a chaste kiss. "That's what I want too. In time, yes, but I do want it."

"And you're not… you're not worried about what others may say? I am a man of nothing, after all, at least until I sort out a way to earn my own keep," he pressed curiously. "And I confess that I have no inclination to live with you in secret – there will be times when we'll need to return to England for visits, and I won't skulk about. I'm not ashamed of…" _loving you,_ he almost said, but settled for "… of being with you."

"I don't care!" she said, her tone close to prim. "If anyone has a problem, then they can do the natural thing and bundle it up before shoving it up their backsides." Taking the time to laugh along with his proud guffaw, she continued with, "But really, it's my business. If people have issues, they can work that out for themselves, as I don't plan to stay around to listen to any objections. Besides, Harry worships the ground you walk on, and Ron's too focused on his own life. Ginny and Luna think you have a fabulous arse – oh, believe me, they really do and now _I_ can attest to its fabulousness – and my parents adore you to no end. All the hard work is done, don't you think?"

"It might be…" he allowed, feeling a strange sense of happiness that came with no longer being the black sheep of the community. "You're sure? How will you tell them?"

"I'll tell the girls at school, of course. And… erm, I'll speak with Phineas then, too…"

"Ah. Please do. He's been worried about you. He has a portrait here, but thought he should make himself scarce for the week anyway. Seems he's learned a few things about privacy. I hear he even has _curtains_ in your rooms."

"I made them myself," she snickered, and then her face fell. "I thought he might be worried… I feel terrible enough as it is. I've been a right-"

He covered her lips with two fingers and shrugged. "He doesn't mind. Talk to him."

"I will," she mumbled, smiling. "But as for Harry and Ron… well, that's obvious, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

Hermione elbowed him and rolled off his body onto her side, beckoning with a tired hand until he curved his body around hers and placed a kiss to the top of her hair. He had intended to wait for her to explain, but instead his renegade mouth formed, "I love you, Hermione. More than anything."

Her slim legs kicked out for a moment, just like her adorable little silent dance the night before, and she chortled before squeezing his hand that was cupping her breast. "Do you really?"

"Do you want me to say it again? I will," he threatened happily.

She didn't reply directly, but then said, "I love you too, you know. I have for a long time; before I even really knew what my feelings meant, if we're being honest. I've wanted you since I saw you that night in the corridor after coming in from a run."

"Mmm…" he mused, running a finger down the scar along the middle of her chest. "I was a level headed man at that point… so of course I found you irresistible. Such a terrible influence you are, forcing me to act on such desires."

"Oh, say that again," she commanded breathily, arching into his touch.

He lowered his voice, intent on creating the texture of silk and rawness that he knew she loved. " _Desire,_ " he murmured into her ear, and kissed her bare shoulder. She gave a soft moan of approval, and then curled her hands around the arm that was now thrown over her waist.

"I could do this forever," she said happily. "It's easier than I ever thought it would be."

"Good," said Severus, imitating her earlier words. "Now sleep. I want to have this memory of you, asleep in my bed, not wanting to leave."

"Me too," Hermione sighed.

"And don't forget to tell me how you'll inform your friends," he reminded her. "I want to know; if you think I should be there, I'll come."

"Oh no," she said instantly. "I'll do it the way that worked for us."

"Which is…?"

"In a letter, of course."

"Of course," he repeated with a snort. "Sleep, love."


	15. Chapter 15

**_A/N:_** _Thank you to everyone who has come on this journey with me. What a wonderful experience it has been! Forgive me for the lack of review replies for the last chapter – I've had a horrid cold, so have been saving my dry eyes in order to do some proper replies for this particular, very special, chapter. Do let me know what you have thought of the story, and thank you all again!_

 _And to add - a guest reviewer has made me aware that despite being an Australian, I've sucked myself into the AU puddle so well that my seasons are reversed in this fic, hahahha! Good lord. I have no excuses. Let's just pretend that this alternate universe has alternate seasons._

* * *

 **Chapter 15**

 _Hermione,_

 _Merlin's knickers – Australia? Snape? You don't do things by halves, do you?_

 _Ron_

 _/_

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _It wasn't as shocking as you seem to think it might've been – I did not need to sit down, though I confess to pilfering some of Ron's firewhiskey._

 _I think… and this was the shocking part for me… it does make sense. Not so much the Snape part, I'm still trying to wrap my head around that, but your decision. You've done so much here, but I can see how it might be nice to get away from it all. Just promise me you'll keep the Floo open for us, and give Snape ample notice so he doesn't hex our bollocks off when we arrive._

 _I'll miss you. Even though you've been at school and we've been in training, I'll still miss knowing that you were close enough to Apparate to. Which is a bit selfish, but I was glad for it all the same. Now you'll be at the end of the earth. Funnily enough, I can't think of somewhere that would be better for one of us to be! Bugger England – the war is over, but it's going to take years to clean up the mess. Get out while you can, but come back every now and then, won't you?_

 _As for Snape…I'm still trying to come to terms with the fact that he's alive. Let me think on it._

 _Love,_

 _Harry._

 _/_

 _Hermione,_

 _Look, I'm just warning you – Harry has been writing a massive letter that he plans to send to Snape. He's had Ginny read it at least ten times since she came home for a quick visit today, and she did try to burn it, but he bloody charmed it so it wouldn't get damaged! Something about kissing Snape's arse sometime in the future?_

 _All right, I'm kidding; it's an overly detailed 'thank you'. He might not want to read it – Merlin knows that I ruddy well don't – but I skimmed it enough to know that it might give him a bit of closure. I've no idea if he even wants anything of the sort, given you are a gift enough, but he might._

 _Love,_

 _Ron._

 _/_

 _Hermione,_

 _Just thought these might come in handy._

 _Ginny_

 _/_

 _Ginny,_

 _Don't think I'll ever forgive you for sending bright bloody green lace knickers to me at the breakfast table! Could you not have simply_ _given_ _them to me?_

 _(A very angry) Hermione_

 _/_

 _Hermione,_

 _It was a mail order catalogue! Plus, you wouldn't have accepted them, you big prude!_

 _Gin_

 _/_

 _Gin,_

 _How do you know? Perhaps I might have…_

 _H_

 _/_

 _H,_

 _Is there something about your trip that you're not telling me?_

 _/_

 _Gin – here's an idea: stop sending me letters, and come and sit with me at breakfast instead! And bring Luna. There's a matter of utmost importance that we must discuss. A hint: I have seen evidence of your hypothesis regarding a certain Professor's delectable backside._

 _H._

 _/_

 _Ron,_

 _As always, your verbosity is almost overwhelming. No, I don't do things by halves, and yes, I'm off to Australia_ _and_ _to Severus._

 _I won't be seeing him again until after the NEWTs (speaking of which, forgive me because I simply do not have the time to write too much at the moment – there's only a week to go!) so I don't know what he'll do about Harry's letter, but I've forwarded on your warning. It's probably best Harry gets it out anyway, otherwise he'll be a blubbering mess when we all actually see each other._

 _Do you really mean that? About me, that is? Thank you, Ron. Not that I would've changed my mind or anything, but your opinion does mean a lot to me – you and Harry are as good as my brothers, after all, and I love you both. Parvati is a lucky woman. And I am, too. I am so very lucky. Oh, don't gag._

 _How is training going? Your practical exams are coming up soon, aren't they? Why have you got all of this time to write to me? Get back to your desk, or I'll send you a howler._

 _Love to you and Harry,_

 _Hermione_

 _/_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _The letter you have sent seems to be charmed to fly around my study unless it is opened, therefore I offer you the following:_

 _Your thanks are not needed, but they are appreciated. Your apologies became irrelevant a long time ago, yet the account of the entirety of your wrongdoings provided a welcome laugh. The bottle of scotch was thoughtful. I have enclosed one of my own personal brews in return._

 _You are welcome to share a drink of it one day with Hermione and myself, and if Mr. and Miss Weasley must accompany you, then they may do so._

 _Please note the 'one' day, and do not take it to mean 'every' day._

 _Severus Snape._

 _/_

 _…_

 _Severus,_

 _So glad you've kept the bedside table – my last exam is this afternoon! When should I come to you?_

 _Yours,_

 _Hermione._

 _/_

 _My Hermione,_

 _I want you in my arms no later than Monday evening. I say Monday evening knowing that it is Thursday for you now; your mother has been coming over every morning asking when you will be here. I have agreed that it would be sensible for you to spend the weekend either celebrating with your newly free (good grief) friends, or with your parents before I lock you up in my cave for at least a week. Jean's words, not mine._

 _Severus._

 _/_

 _Severus – tell mum I'll try and be there on Sunday morning. With all of the time difference, I'm not sure that I can survive the party this evening and arrive lacking a hangover. I shall try my best. Love you._

 _/_

 _My Hermione, are you or are you not a more than competent brewer? Anyway… against my better judgement, please accept the most potent Sober Up potion known to inebriated witches and wizards the world over. S._

 _/_

 _…_

 _S,_

 _I love you – I really, really do. I love you… I hope you love me too. When I fall into your arms, then everything's okay! You're my sunshine and my love on a rainy rainy day… on a rainy rainy day!_

 _/_

 _Hermione… I am impressed that you managed to spell every word correctly. How is your head this morning?_

 _S._

 _/_

 _…_ _I dictated it. And, like you said it would be, my head is perfectly fine! I could do last night over and over again!_

 _/_

 _Please do not._

 _/_

 _Yes. Right. Ha! Off to the International Floo terminal now!_

 _I love you._

 _Hermione._

...

 _My Hermione,_

 _By the time you find this letter, you will be here and your own bedside table will be on the other side of our bed, matching with mine._

 _I want you to know that if I was told of the events that would occur during my time as Headmaster, I would have ignored each and every letter. I thought that I had to die, dear heart. From the end of the first war until the time I received your first letter, I was sure that my ending was guaranteed._

 _You saved my life. And yet – I have no debt towards you, there is nothing tugging on my heart to force me to love you, to desire you to be in my life. There is nothing to force me. I have taken no Unbreakable Vows, given no promises._

 _All I have done is be witness to the strong, brave woman that you are. And in turn, you spent your strength on me, of all people._

 _For everything that I have done – you are more than a reward for me, Hermione. You are what I have always wanted. Even before I could put your face and your name to the woman that haunted me in my dreams, I wished for someone like you._

 _And what is a man to do, now that he has such a woman loving him, desiring him? Believe you me, I can barely believe the words as I write them, but I know you as well as I know my own self and so I dare not waste any of our precious time on senseless doubts._

 _There is nothing else but to ask this of you, Hermione: be my wife._

 _Marry me – now, next week, next month or next year. Whenever you choose. Be my wife, be the mother of our children, tie yourself to me in every way possible, as I will tie myself to you._

 _I love you._

 _Severus._

…

He was mowing the lawn when she strolled up the street, swinging a handbag as if she did the walk every day. She was a natural at quiet life already, his Hermione.

The methodical movements of pushing the mower up and down the front and back lawns had been a pleasure since he'd discovered the old machine in the back shed after moving into the blue weatherboard home. Tinkering with it became a side project to researching the potion that would eventually return Jean and Richard's memories, and by the time it worked, he took it around the lawns at least once a fortnight. What had started as a matter of pride (he'd fixed it without magic, after all) became a simple way to remind himself that the harrowing days of rushing from one master to the next were gone.

He was a man of the earth now; once he had been a man of water, never once controlling where his life would lead, yet he could look up from the grass and see a home, a garden. A laboratory out the back, and-

"Severus!"

An impatient wave of his hand turned off the mower and he swung around, coming face to face with the woman who held his heart. Oh, she was lovely indeed – hair flying every which way, sandals on her feet, jeans and a white singlet with those bare shoulders that always seemed to glow pink in the sun. Her lips that he knew to be soft were curved into a smile that became a wide grin when he stared at her, his face a mixture of elation and surprise.

He wasted no time in striding to the gate and pulling her inside, drawing her into his embrace. The months had gone so slowly without her!

"Hello," he mumbled into her hair, revelling in the way she laughed delightedly. His hands roamed over her back, her waist, as he took in how it felt to hold her again. "You're early."

"I couldn't stay away," she whispered, the sound half muffled from where her cheek lay against his t-shirt covered chest. Her hands scrunched up the old blue fabric until she could slip them under it and stroke his back. "Mum and dad kicked me out of the house – apparently I was mooning too much."

"Good, good," he breathed, unwilling to ever let her go again. It was almost disappointing when she pushed gently until she could move her head enough to tilt it towards his, but then his mouth met hers, soft at first, then hungry, demanding. He poured everything that he did not have the words to say into it, until he couldn't even think of anything except taking her inside. When her tongue slipped into his mouth, so languid and full with the taste of her, he groaned and threaded his fingers through the sprawling curls of her hair.

They pulled apart, and the reluctant grumble out of her mouth made him close his eyes and sigh.

"Won't you take me inside, Severus?"

Oh, _bliss!_ He laughed then, a great joyous laugh that burst from within; she was here!

"You're home!" he exclaimed and then cleared his throat, still retaining some of his buttoned up exterior when it came to obvious declarations of happiness. Throwing the hesitation aside, he said, "I've missed you, love."

"And I you. Now take me inside," she ordered playfully, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the house.

 _Their_ house.

…

All of her belongings were put away hours later. Severus hardly lifted a hand, content with watching her meander around the house in nothing but a singlet and knickers as he stretched out on the bed, the thin sheen of sweat on his body from their earlier activities barely dissipating in the hot afternoon sun.

Hermione didn't have much, and he was glad that he'd salvaged what he could from Spinner's End, as well as what he'd bought himself. Her clothes fit in neatly with his in the wardrobe and chest of drawers under the window, and the shrunken feminine items were soon filling up the bathroom, giving a tangible weight to the presence of a woman in the house.

He _loved_ it.

Along with the portrait already in the sitting room, her own frame for Phineas was placed on the veranda out the back.

"You'd think I did all of this for shits and giggles," the former Headmaster said, his stern façade cracking just slightly in response to Hermione's hoots of laughter. "What makes you think that I'll even spend any time here? I'll have you know that the Headmistress' office has much more in the way of intelligent company." But despite his words, his eyes crinkled at the corners when Hermione put a hand on the canvas, smiling widely.

"I'm sure you're right, if by intelligent company you mean a bunch of halfwits," Severus drawled after dragging his sated body out of bed, echoing his words of a lifetime ago when he'd first entered the office as Headmaster.

"Hmm," Black hummed noncommittally. "Takes one to know one."

"Indeed," Hermione purred, imitating both of the older Slytherin men, jumping away from Severus' swatting hands.

"Oh!" she cried, darting away from them and heading into the bedroom. "I've forgotten something."

He trailed after her, and his nervous heart stuttered. "What is it?"

She pointed at his rosewood bedside table, then pulled out a tiny cube-like item from her pocket. A wave of her wand sent her own to the other side of the bed, a relic from when she had ever so sneakily nicked it from the Headmistress' office.

"You brought it," he remarked silkily, moving to stand behind her as he wound his arms around her waist. "Is there anything inside?"

Hermione started to shake her head, but he squeezed her curves and said into her ear, "Tsk, tsk, love – have a look, why don't you?"

With his heart in her hands, she turned and kissed him on the cheek with a dazzling smile, then walked slowly forward to open the drawer.

* * *

 _Finite Incantatem._


End file.
